The Bourne Involution
by Kate Moore
Summary: Not all Outcome Agents were given a number; one was called Outcome X. She was their greatest asset until she slipped out of their hands. But she can still be used to end Aaron Cross. Marta Shearing is Outcome X, and she's destined to kill the man who has become so much more than "Five." Together they are strong, yet together they must fall …a sequel to "The Bourne Legacy."
1. Prologue: Part 01

**A Note Before I Begin…**

Thank you for stumbling upon _The Bourne Involution_. I've always been a fan of the franchise, but I became so intrigued by the uncertainty in the _Bourne_ universe at the end of the most recent film. The closing of _Legacy_ is an epic cliffhanger, and I found myself wondering, "What happens next?" Needless to say, _The Bourne Involution_ was born out of my impatience; _Legacy_ has set the stage for countless scenarios, and this story happens to explore one of them.

Please be prepared for a fast-paced, suspenseful story that, I hope, is reminiscent of the films: gritty and infused with important dialogue. That aside, please be prepared for the development of a budding relationship. Unlike the films, romance will be a driving force throughout this story. There will be adult situations and content as well as some language, though I've done my best to stay true to the PG-13 nature of the films. I do not own any rights to the _Bourne_ franchise, though there are some original characters introduced, and I hope they fit in nicely.

Please note that italics are meant to denote thoughts, dreams, flashbacks, et cetera. Your feedback is always appreciated.

Aaron Cross and Marta Shearing are powerful characters. I hope this story does them justice.

**Prologue: Part 01**

_It's just a flu shot, for God's sake. Suck it up._

Dr. Marta Shearing is no stranger to needles, pokes, and prods, albeit she's usually the one with the white coat.

Every fall, she gets a flu shot. Coerced to undergo the needle stick from her very early years, it's more of a penance to her mother than a precaution. Besides, Marta never gets sick.

Her palms sweat as the needle bearer approaches. She smiles uncomfortably. The familiar sting of chemicals invading her left arm dissipates soon, and she is instructed to move the arm to get the juice circulating. No shiny Band-Aid, no cherry lollipop. _So much for being a kid at heart._

"We'll need you to relax here for about fifteen minutes, Ms. Shearing," the nurse instructs halfheartedly.

_Why? _"For a flu shot?" Marta knew that some vaccines required patients to remain under a doctor's supervision for a while to ensure that they did not suffer from adverse side effects, but…for a flu shot?

"It's just a precaution. This year's recipe is different…new strains. We wouldn't want you to have an allergic reaction after you leave," the nurse replied matter-of-factly.

"Alright, thanks." The nurse nodded and left the examination room, lightly closing the door behind her.

Marta was too tired to argue. She scanned her surroundings, annoyed with how the white paper on the examination table crumbled obnoxiously even if she only moved her eyes. There were some nice paintings of Monet-esque landscapes on the walls. Either her general practitioner liked this medium, or they were meant to help calm fidgety patients as they waited. _One day I'll go to Paris and see some real art…if I can manage to get out of the lab for a week, _she mused. _Vacation? What's that?_

Not that Dr. Shearing had much of an extracurricular life, anyway. There was her sister's family, whose company she adored. And there was that empty old house. Maybe one day she'd get around to renovating it, as her mother had wanted. But, in the meantime, work was her life.

Lately, the lab was especially busy, as her team had inherited an NRAG Program called Outcome. With the arrival of Outcome, their building had become increasingly retrofitted for security. This did not faze her. She found her work to be exhausting, yet exhilarating and exciting. The breakthroughs in virology, epigenetics…they were beyond her wildest dreams. Even better, the science was coming to life through Outcome via federal Agents, human experiments. Marta didn't question the morality of her science in relation to humans; after all, the Outcome Agents she examined didn't seem to be complaining about the effects of her science. The chems she and her team developed made them into super humans, designed to be exceptionally resourceful, critical, multilingual, and quick in every sense of the word: physically and mentally. To her, the Outcome Agents were perfect specimens, and they were adequately named: she couldn't have asked for a better _outcome_ after all her years of research.

Sometimes, though, they were intimidating, unnerving; they made her heart beat fast and her hands sweat in her latex gloves as they counted backward from one-hundred…in Russian…

The paper crinkled as Marta shifted on the examination table. _This is ridiculous. I have so much to do._ She swung her legs onto the table and laid back, arms crossed in frustration over her chest.

_One day I'll go to Paris…One day when I'm not so…tired…_

She felt her senses drift away as consciousness left her. She had been unaware of the cameras in the room.

In the examination room next door, Eric Byer's eyes narrowed as he focused on the camera feed. He considered the rise and fall of her chest; her breathing was no longer shallow and reminiscent of her nervous, impatient thoughts. It was relaxed, slow. The intra-muscular mix had fulfilled its duty.

Byer stood slowly and exhaled, eyes still fixed on the screen. "She's out. Let's get this over with." He reached for a patient file from the table next to the camera feed. Dr. Shearing's lab security clearance photo was on the front. "And so the good doctor becomes a puppet for the good old U.S. of A," he chuckled. "What will they think of next?" He shook his head and opened the door, file in hand. Before he entered her room, he took one last look at the photo on the file cover. _Why can't all the Agents be this hot?_ He mused with a smirk. His eyes drifted from her face to the bold, sterile text beneath, revealing her fate:

**MARTA SHEARING **

**OUTCOME X**


	2. Prologue: Part 02

**Prologue: Part 02**

**Take a step back from Prologue: Part 01. This scene is more of the backstory; it too is set prior to the events of **_**Legacy**_**. This is how Marta Shearing's fate was chosen. Like the other Outcome Agents, she is a product of **_**unnatural**_** selection. Imagine: three men sitting in a dark, stale room. It's late, and they've been here for hours. They need a new Outcome Agent, one who is different than the others. One who can protect them if all goes to hell... **

"We can't have an Outcome Agent in the lab every day; it's too dangerous. Outcome Agents are designed to put their skills to use in the field."

"Plus, if there's an Agent in the lab examining the others, isn't there a risk that the heightened instinctual capabilities might induce realization of a connection?"

"What do you mean?"

"A species innately recognizes similarities in other members of its own species. It innately seeks kinship with others like it. _Homo sapiens_ didn't kill off _Homo neanderthalensis_ for no reason. They were _different_, so naturally they were _dangerous_. We can't have Outcome Agents joining forces and ganging up on us."

"This isn't anthropology. And we're not talking about another species here."

"Aren't we? How many chromosomes do you have to alter before you cross that line?"

"For Christ's sake. They are humans. Human operatives."

Thoughts sink in. There's silence. Then,

"The science has to be different."

"Excuse me?"

"If you want an Outcome Agent under your watch in the lab…a normal functioning, unsuspecting human…the science has to be different."

"How so?"

"Regular chems can't be involved. You can't coerce a healthy person to pop pills for no reason. The scientist can't also be the lab rat. If he doesn't know he's an Agent, why would he take the chems? Protocol says only Agents who understand the necessity of the chems can take the chems."

"Who said Outcome X is a he?"

"Is it not?"

"No. We have someone in mind. She is brilliant yet unsuspecting, easily controllable."

"Who, then?"

"Shearing."

"We find a way to put her under our spell. Unlike the others, she keeps her identity and her job. Neither she nor Sterisyn-Morlanta will know that we're in control. She won't have the typical enhancements, nothing she would notice, anyway."

"Precisely why the science has to be different. You're designing a whole new breed of Outcome – an Outcome who has no idea what she's capable of. An Outcome who has no clue she's an Outcome."

"Until we want her to know. Until we need her to act."

"Right."

"You administer chems through routine medical practice. You make sure she goes to her doctor for check-ups, allergy shots, a flu shot…whatever. That's when you administer the chems. Knock her out, and brainwash her. Alter the science so that she doesn't have to chem regularly, only as frequently as she would go to the doctor anyway. When she wakes up, she'll have no recollection, and she'll go about her way until the next chem."

"How long do we wait between chems?"

"Right now, our study shows that chems can last up to three months if administered at the highest concentration. We can alter them to ensure that she notices no physiological or psychological changes."

"So we make her an Agent. What's her mission?"

"Safety Net. The others have shown psychological red flags. They're hoarding chems, cash, weapons, and whatever they can in preparation for a possible Program Shutdown. She already examines them and takes notes on their behavior. She's the front line. We have to keep her there."

"Clarify, please."

"She knows them best. She keeps them in check if we can't. If all goes to hell, we still have her to save our asses."

"Understood."

"How do we get her to act?"

"We make her a Manchurian Candidate. The chems are the foundation. We use them to keep her dependent on us. Then, classic brainwashing. When she's out, we make her a programmable machine. We program a target phrase in her head, and we wake her up when we need her."

"She's not a bomb that you can remote detonate. You have to maintain some control over her in order to use her."

"We track her just like we do the others. We shut her down if we have to."

"But if she manages to get off the grid, we can't control her."

"This is where the science comes into play. Even if she gets away, even if she finds out she's an Agent, even if she gets rid of her chip…we can still find her."

"How?"

"If she doesn't chem in time, she'll degrade just like the others. That's why we keep them coming back for more, to show them that we're in control. Without us, they die."

"It goes deeper than that."

"How so?"

"She doesn't know she's an Agent, so she wouldn't come back to us for more. If she degrades, she'll think it's just a nasty virus or something…until she dies. She won't realize what's happening. On the other hand, if she does realize her role somehow, we still have a shot even if she doesn't come to us."

"Take me further down the rabbit hole. How do we get to her if she gets rid of her chip?"

"Her foundation chems will use radioactive tagging. Even if she figures all of this out and virals off, the radioactivity won't go away. It's permanently attached to her cells. With the right tools, we can always track her."

"If we can track her, we can use her."

"Right. If she gets rid of her chip, it will take longer to get to her. You have to send in the dogs to sniff out the radioactivity."

"By dogs, you mean Agents."

"Bingo."

"And if she manages to get that far off the grid, you can bet she has help."

"As soon as we find her, we have her kill the help. And then we shut her down."

"Imagine that. A Safety Net within a Safety Net."

"Exactly. We can't have our own Agents getting the best of us."

"You mean you can't let your creation outsmart its God?"

"Precisely."

Pause.

"I think we're done here, gentlemen. Find a way to make her sick, and tell her she needs an appendectomy. Let's get that chip in her."

"Yes sir."

And so began the Unnatural Selection of Outcome X.


	3. Chapter 01

**Now that the backstory is behind us, we fast-forward to a familiar scene…**

**Chapter 01**

"I was kind of hoping we were lost."

Though he wasn't looking directly at her, Aaron could sense Marta's rejuvenated spirit in the way that she had floated from below deck to the rickety bench next to him. Who was he kidding? He could sense anything, everything. He could feel the spark in the way she lifted her eyes to his face, a little shy, very brave, and so damn sexy.

Talk about emotional noise. _Lost on the Sulu Sea with Dr. Shearing? The situation aside, sounds like the perfect vacation._

He loses interest in the map he'd been studying, and she sees a mischievous smile form on his lips, matching her own. Neither had seen such sentiment from the other before. Until then, Marta had shed tears of frustration, of fear. Aaron had been staunch and stealthy, only vulnerable in sickness and injury. He raises his eyes to hers and studies her face. His mind is rarely quiet, and he can't deny the conflicting thoughts zooming around his chem-enhanced head.

_Could we afford to stay in one place for a while? Are we far enough off the grid? Is there any way they could still be tracking us? _

Suddenly his thoughts switch gears.

_Holy fuck, she killed a LARX Agent. She's a warrior. She saved my life. She's so smart. She's so beautiful. Am I just her science experiment?_

_These feelings are not allowed. _

_Why not? I've already broken all the other rules. _

_We've already broken all the other rules. _

_We need each other._

_Fair enough._

_Just take it slow. Be smart. _

_Thanks to her, I am smart. No more chems. _

Even Aaron couldn't believe that such a conversation with his own calculating consciousness had taken place in a mere instant. Such feelings threatened them both with unanticipated consequences, but Aaron had already convinced himself that he'd felt more alive since he whisked her away from that house in Maryland than ever before in his life, or Kenneth's.

He was almost certain, based on the way she'd refused to leave him in Manila, that she felt the same. After all, there was no one else she could trust. The alternative to feeling alive is feeling dead, Aaron reasoned. You might as well be dead if you feel dead. He'd rather feel alive with her; he'd rather die feeling alive than feeling dead. And without her, he's pretty sure he'd already be dead. He didn't really care if there was fallacy in his logic.

Marta could tell he'd been thinking. _Is he ever not thinking, for that matter?_ When he raised his eyes to hers, squinting in the sun, she knew what had consumed his thoughts: their situation, yes, but there was something more…his feelings.

Even when she knew him as "Five," she noted his contemplative nature. In fact, she recalled scribbling something to the effect of "susceptible to emotions" in his file after one of their first encounters. Then, it had worried her; she wondered if an Agent with feelings could fulfill his missions. Now, full sail off the coast of the Philippines, she silently rejoices in his ability to feel, and she desperately hopes that maybe he could learn to feel for her.

Part of her balks at this thought. _Don't romanticize it. You're partners in survival. That's it. Don't be such a girl._

Another part of her fights back. _He's dying to care and be cared for. Isn't that why he's fought back? Why would he work so hard to beat the Program if he has nothing to live for? He wants out so that he can live, so he can feel without punishment. Why not care for him? He is the only person I can trust, anyway._

_Since when am I such a romantic?_

The two continue to share the lighthearted moment. Aaron's hand finds hers on the wooden tabletop, stirring her from her thoughts. This gesture has been the extent of their intimacy thus far, except for when she held him in Manila, his body overcome with sickness, and on the boat when, after tending to his bullet wounds, she found herself half asleep next to him on their foam pallet, her forehead nestled against the back of his neck. This time, there was a certain confidence in his gesture, and this, coupled with his smile, was all she needed to confirm the romanticism of the moment.

Aaron had always been attracted to her; there was no doubt about that. It had been difficult for him to curb his desire to flirt with her in the examination room. After all, hers was one of the only consistent faces he saw, and damn was it a sight for sore eyes! The last few days had brought them closer than he had ever thought possible, but crossing the line between partners and friends, friends and lovers, was foreign territory; it was one of few languages in which he was not fluent. Lost between attraction and survival, he suddenly became an awkward adolescent on a first date. _What the hell do I say now?_ He decided to take a risk.

"I'm glad you stayed," he said quietly, gently squeezing her hand.

Her eyes lit up at his reassurance that she wasn't unnecessary baggage. "Me too," she smiled, her voice soft and a bit shy.

"I'll make sure we don't spend the rest of our lives running, Doc."

Marta's gaze shifted from their entwined hands, to Aaron, to the water. She shrugged. "I could get used to this," she countered. "Honestly, I needed a vacation." Aaron laughed softly, his eyes shining in the sun, and Marta tried to mask the shiver that ran down her spine.

"If you want a vacation, I know a place. It's actually one of those options I was telling you about," Aaron said, straightening up and stretching his limbs. He enjoyed the way Marta watched him so intently. Sure, she had paid attention to "Five" in the examination room, but the way she paid attention to Aaron Cross was so much better.

"Oh, you do?" She raised an eyebrow. _Oh my God, we're flirting._

"Yeah. Look." He unrolled the map and proceeded to explain their position in the Sulu Sea. Marta looked at the map briefly but was admittedly more interested in watching him talk through his thoughts. "We're here," he pointed, "and there's a place called the Tubbataha Reef here." His finger moved several inches across the map. "A lot of tourists. A lot of diving and fishing this time of year – it's amazing. I don't think anyone would look for us there. We could spend a few days and regroup, hop a cruise ship back to Puerto Princesa, and go from there."

"I like the way you think." Marta smiled, her eyes burning into him.

"I only have you to thank for that," he shrugged. Marta lightly nudged him at his reference to the chems. She knew this was his attempt at a joke, though it pained her for a moment to remember the power she once held over him with science. Her cheerfulness returned when she raised her eyes to his, but she had to let a thought escape.

"I never meant to load the gun, Aaron. Had I known the whole story..." She looked down in search of the right words.

He was too tired to argue, and he realized that his feelings for her – whatever they meant – outweighed any blame he once attributed to her role in the Program. "I know." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I know," he repeated more confidently. His fingertips slowly brushed her hair out of her eyes, and when she returned his gaze, he smiled softly, reassuringly – the same smile he had given her when she injected him with live virus in Manila. _Thank you…_he had said. They were even. No regrets. No debts. Only trust and anticipation.

As if on cue, the fisherman's son appeared on deck with a message for Aaron, though he was visibly confused by the exchange between the two travelers. After a moment, he spoke, though only Aaron could understand him. Aaron responded and nodded pleasantly as if to say, "I'll be right there."

Marta waited for a translation. "So apparently the captain needs help repairing some navigation instruments."

"I thought you were an assassin, not a mechanic," Marta laughed.

"I'm sort of a Jack-of-All-Trades," he smirked. "I have…many talents." Marta nearly fell off the bench when he winked at her. As he stood, the makeshift bandage on his shoulder hung loose, and Marta jumped up to tend to it. He couldn't help but enjoy the way she cared for him, and he smiled at the memory of her poking and prodding him in their past lives. _This is so much better, _he mused_._

With a husky "Thanks, Doc," he reluctantly walked away, holding her gaze until he reached the ladder leading to the main deck.

With Aaron out of sight, Marta returned to the bench and sank down with a sigh. Her shirt – Aaron's shirt – tickled her shoulders as it blew slightly with the sea breeze. Her attention returned to the laminated map he'd been studying. "Tubbataha Reef," she repeated, wondering exactly where it was located, though unable to decipher the unfamiliar Asian characters. She absently traced the tattered edge of the map with her fingertips, her thoughts drifting half way around the world to her past life. _Boring, _she thought. _This is so much better, _she mused. _Maybe I really am a warrior._

Suddenly, she shakes her head, trying to rid herself of such thoughts. _My sister probably thinks I'm dead. But I can't go back. Not yet, anyway. What if I never go back? _She shakes her head again in frustration. _Aaron will know what to do. He's always a step ahead. _Marta knew her science by heart, though she couldn't help but wonder at his intellect. _He's got to be smarter than all the others. Hell, he's smarter than the CIA itself; he's smarter than the science that made him. Oh, for Christ's sake..._

Marta chastises herself for thinking of Aaron as a science project. He is not a God. Rather, she was the God – she and her team – who have made him a mentally and physically enhanced Pawn in a lethal government game._ God, when you put it that way…_

These thoughts frighten her, and she's too tired to work through an ethical dilemma. She decides, once and for all, to forget about the science and the past. She will think of Aaron as a man, and she will think of herself as a woman. They're together on a fishing boat on some remote stretch of the Sulu Sea. They're trying to survive. _The rest is up to fate…_

"Fate," she whispers, releasing the breath she'd been holding. She's satisfied with her resolution, and her consciousness is quieted by the peaceful sea and the warm sun.


	4. Chapter 02

**Thank you for the reviews - we still have a long way to go!**

**Chapter 02**

Eric Byer's tense face is illuminated by a sea of computer screens. He picks at the chapped skin of his dry lips, a nervous habit.

It's too quiet in the room, but the silence is quickly broken when someone behind him mutters, "LARX Three is dead. All vitals lost. No communication."

"No shit," he snarls under his breath. _Damn it, Cross…_

For a moment, he wonders whose bright idea it was to manufacture Agents programmed to be smarter than their creators. _It was risky from the beginning, _he admits inwardly. Despite his team's best efforts to shut down the Program, one of his Agents keeps avoiding his seemingly inescapable traps. _Shit, make that two Agents: Outcome Five and Outcome X. _

Cross and Shearing.

Byer had been right about one thing all along: if Shearing – his Safety Net – managed to get out of his reach, she undoubtedly had help. He never anticipated that she would run away with Aaron Cross. The idea of the two of them working together was a dangerous one. He figured that Cross had sought out Shearing for chems when he realized that she could be his last hope for maintaining his enhancements and any chance of survival. Byer nearly laughs out loud at the irony and the impeccable timing of the ensuing fairy tale. _Cross arrives at Shearing's house at exactly the same time as her planned shutdown, saves her life and they run off to Manila. All along, I thought Cross had been blown to shreds in Alaska. Oh, the fucking irony..._

Byer shakes himself back to the present and begins preparing a mental list. _I need to know everything about the area and coordinates of all vessels within fifty miles of Manila. I need to know where all fishing vessels departing that marina are headed. _Byer had a hunch that the duo had ditched the motorcycle for a fishing boat as a quick escape from the city.

Shearing's location flashed on one of the monitors. _She still has her chip. She still doesn't know that she's a cog in the machine just like Cross. As long as that chip's in her, we can track them and shut them down. She's her own worst enemy, and she has no idea. _

Feeling secure with the scientific leash he's put around Shearing's neck, Byer's attention returns to Cross. _"Morally indefensible and absolutely necessary,"_ he had barked to coax Cross from his ethical dilemma in Somalia. He wondered if the same idea applied to shutting Cross down now. _It's absolutely necessary. He's dangerous. We have to end him. He was always too much of a thinker anyway. Too many feelings. Feelings make men weak in this line of work._

As he flipped through Cross's classified file, Byer wondered if he could use this trend to his advantage. He skimmed over some of the notes that Shearing had scribbled following Cross's examinations:

"Calculating." "Stubborn." "Contemplative." "Asks too many questions." "Flirtatious, but not inappropriately so." "Susceptible to emotions."

Her handwriting was sterile, but Byer could reenact their meetings in his mind using her descriptions. _He's into her. She'd probably have been into him too if she hadn't signed her life away to the Program._

A plan was starting to come together in Byer's mind. _Back off enough to let them relax a little. Let them get attached to each other and become weak. Strike when they least expect it. _

Byer suddenly turned toward the support staff in the room. "Shut off the monitors, and listen," he said sternly. The staff followed his orders, and all eyes were soon on Byer, waiting for the next plan of attack.

"We're going to back off." Bewildered and confused eyes filled the room. "Only for a while: weeks at the most. We're going to let them think they're off our radar."

"Wishful thinking, Boss," One of the support staff retorted. "Cross knows we wouldn't back off."

_Who the fuck are you?_ Byer smirked.

"Trust me on this one, friend," Byer returned in a less-than-friendly tone. _It's going to happen_, he thought. _If they're not fucking already, then it won't be long. Cross needed chems, but he always had a thing for the Doc. We use her as bait to reel him in. Then we kill them both._

"What if they decide to go public while we back off? What about our asses?" Someone else asked.

_Not Cross's style. _

"This guy doesn't play games. If he wants to go public, he'll do it in person. With a bullet in my skull. No media mess. As long as the focus is on Bourne, he'll use that to his advantage to lay low."

"How would he get back to the States?"

"I don't know…maybe the same way he blew up the drone in Alaska. If he wants to do it, he'll fucking do it. This guy's not human. But he won't come back here like Bourne did. He'll make us come to him."

"And how do we track him?"

"Track her. They won't separate. Cute, right?"

"So we keep tracking her remotely," one of the younger support staff affirmed. Byer nodded. "But why does she have a chip? She's just a scientist."

Byer smirked. "She's a real secret Agent, son." Byer put his hand on the young man's shoulder with a bit of force for effect. "She doesn't even know she's part of Outcome."

The young man stared at Byer blankly, visibly baffled at the depth of the Program.

"Welcome to the CIA, son," Byer said as he moved toward the door.

Before he left the room, Byer turned toward the support staff with one last order. "Get everything you can on possible destinations and fishing vessel routes. I want to be one step ahead of Cross at all times. Keep LARX on standby in Singapore and Taipei. If they leave the Philippines, we need to know where they're going before they get there. And watch her vitals and position – if you see any major changes, let me know."

Byer returned to his dark office with a renewed sense of confidence. Sitting down at his desk, he sipped a mug of cold coffee before sifting through the pages in Shearing's file. It was time to learn how to use her, his Manchurian Candidate.

_We're all sin eaters in the end_, he mused, _and I'm fucking hungry_.


	5. Chapter 03

**Chapter 03**

Marta was amazed at how quickly the sun disappeared behind the horizon at sea. At dusk, the shimmer of the remaining rays reflected on the vessel's gentle wake like a trail of floating diamonds.

She'd spent the afternoon lounging around the stern on her own, surprised by the passing of time despite her worried countenance. _Don't be ridiculous – he's fine!_ She knew Aaron was up on the main deck working on the boat's instruments with the captain, but she couldn't suppress the occasional rush of adrenaline at the thought of what his body had endured in the last seventy-two hours: two gunshot wounds, a severe fever, and, undoubtedly, exhaustion. She worried that he was pushing himself too hard, even despite his enhancements. _Relax. He's a big boy. He knows how to take care of himself. _

The worry was like a radio station she couldn't tune out. On the other hand, she couldn't think of anything – or anyone – else she would rather have consuming her mind. She recalled the latter part of the previous day. Once they were safely aboard the boat, the captain led them below deck to a small room with clean wooden panels and a foam pallet covered with bright floral sheets.

In one of Aaron's last moments of consciousness, he spoke to the captain in Tagalog and handed him the gold watch he'd whisked off the wrist of the factory manager; this made Marta smile, and for a moment she was completely overcome with emotions: fear, sadness, excitement, awe, and affection. _He's so full of _surprises, she thought. The fisherman's son came and went with blankets, candles, a bowl of boiling water, clean rags, and a modest first aid kit; Marta figured that Aaron had requested these things during his brief conversation with the captain. She remembered thanking their hosts with tears in her eyes as Aaron stood shakily, leaning against her for support.

Once they were alone, she steadied him with her hands on his waist and looked worriedly at his pallid face. He was barely able to raise his eyes. Her hands moved to cradle his neck. "We're o.k. You're going to be o.k." She inwardly wished that she had come up with something more profound, more reassuring, but she was exhausted. His head fell to her shoulder. "I've got to get you stitched up." She felt him nod, and she gently worked on removing his leather jacket, then his t-shirt. He winced as the material was peeled away from his bullet-grazed shoulder. Marta thought she felt a piece of her heart tear along with his shirt. Examining the first bullet wound, Marta was relieved to find that only flesh and skin had been singed as the bullet whizzed past. She knew the next part would be more difficult…

Blood had soaked through his dark jeans, making it even more difficult to get them off. The fact that she even had to remove them on her own was awkward enough. The struggle brought an extra touch of redness to her face and she busied herself removing his shoes before helping him onto the pallet. Had Aaron been a bit less incapacitated, he might have enjoyed watching her struggle with his pants, or lack thereof.

_Where the hell do I even start? _Marta knew his leg was in need of the most attention. Upon quick examination, she found that the bullet went in and out, and both the entry and exit wounds were clean, no fragments of bullet or bone. _Thank God, _she thought, wondering when she had suddenly become religious. God could fix flesh wounds, but God couldn't fix shattered femurs – especially not on a dingy boat. Marta felt confident in fighting blood loss and infection, rather than shattered bones and severe internal damage; she could handle the former, or rather, she was confident that Aaron's enhancements would help him pull through.

Holding a clean rag against Aaron's leg for pressure, Marta examined her supplies – no sutures, just a couple of sewing needles meant for replacing buttons on a sweater. _Fishing line it is, then, _she thought. _No time to waste. _Aaron must have sensed her uneasiness. "Do what you have to do, Doc. I can take it," he said, his voice weak and his breathing shallow.

"I'll do the best I can with what I've got."

"I trust you." Aaron took her hand in his and held it against his chest for a moment. Marta's heart did a flip in her chest. She nodded with a weak smile, as her fingertips brushed his cheek.

She sterilized the needles using a candle's flame and poured rubbing alcohol over his thigh in an attempt to clean the wound and the surrounding areas. Aaron's hands were in fists at his sides, veins protruding from his wrists from the sting. Marta marveled at her near-perfect sutures as she tied off each one. _Fishing line isn't so bad. _

Once the entry and exit wounds were stitched up, Marta dabbed away the blood that had trickled down his leg during the motorcycle chase. _You're a mess, _she thought affectionately. Finally, after applying a generous amount of antibiotic ointment, she positioned two large bandages on his leg. _It may be meant for minor cuts and scrapes, but I guess it's worth a shot, _she thought; anything with "antibiotic" in its name sounded promising.

Marta looked at Aaron's hands. His fingers had uncurled, and one hand rested comfortably just under his sternum. The worst of the pain had subsided. _Thank God. _Again, she wondered when she had become so reverent. After moving her supplies, Marta knelt by his shoulder and began cleansing with warm water. A soft moan left him, and he turned his head slightly. "Shhh…it's alright," she reassured, touching his cheek.

He opened his eyes for a moment and looked at her with such clarity that it nearly took her breath away. And then the moment was gone. Once his eyelids drifted shut once again, she wondered if he had been lucid. _Was he trying to tell me something? Or, was he still out of it?_

She finished cleaning the wound and wrapped a cloth around his arm while gently lifting his shoulder. With her last clean rag, she carefully cleaned his face and neck hoping the warmth would bring more comfort to him. The fisherman's son made a quiet entrance then, careful not to scare her as he slipped into the room. He struggled for words, aware that the male traveler spoke his language, though the female did not.

"You…o.k.?" he asked quietly.

Marta smiled warmly, new tears forming behind her eyes at the young man's thoughtfulness.

She nodded. "Yes, we're o.k. Thank you." She tried to let her smile and tears of gratitude speak for themselves, knowing that a language barrier likely rendered this the extent of their verbal exchange. The boy nodded and smiled pleasantly. Before she knew it, he was gone.

_Alone again. _Marta organized her "surgical" supplies and checked their backpack. She placed a loaded gun under their pallet, making sure it was easily accessible right at the edge of the sheets. Unsure of what else to do, Marta stood next to the pallet and let her eyes drift over Aaron. He was asleep, his breathing even. He had turned a bit onto his right side; the stiffness of the pallet had surely been uncomfortable against his wounds, which were concentrated on his left side.

Marta gathered up the blankets they'd been given. She knelt next to him on their pallet and gently wrapped him up in two quilts. She loved the way he nuzzled the fabric and pulled it close, like a child. Marta removed her own shoes and carefully laid down next to him letting her eyes roll back in her head for a moment. She turned to her side toward Aaron and refrained from draping her arm over his waist. _Too soon_, she thought. Instead, she inched closer to him and let her forehead touch the back of his neck, satisfied to let his scent and the sound of the sea lull her into an anxious sleep.


	6. Chapter 04

**Chapter 04**

Marta recalled how sunlight had poured through the east-facing porthole in their quarters the next morning. The rays made their way across the room and finally rested on her face. She awoke calm, comfortable, and wrapped snuggly in Aaron's quilts. _Oh, God, please tell me he didn't freeze to death. Did I really steal his blankets? _

The serenity of the moment quickly disappeared when she realized that Aaron was no longer lying beside her. _Where the hell is he?_ Heart pounding, she sat up and looked around the room. _Not here. _Something crumbled under her hand on the pallet. She looked down to find a tattered piece of a map placed carefully between her fingertips. Lifting the paper to her sleep-heavy eyes, she was greeted with a reassuring note:

_On the main deck. All is well._

_Sleep in – you deserve it._

_- A_

She recalled how his note brought a smile to her lips and heat to her cheeks; Aaron had wrapped her carefully in the quilts. She was relieved to not have stolen them during the night. _I hope I looked half-way decent when he woke up this morning. God, I hope I wasn't snoring. _She feels even more heat in her face when self-consciousness strikes; it had been a while since she'd taken a shower or brushed her hair. Her worry had subsided as she stretched her arms and legs. She smirked as she imagined the captain's reaction to seeing a recovered Aaron on-deck, already back on his feet_. _

_He's kind of a freak of nature. In a good way. _

As the morning light danced on her face, Marta decided to follow Aaron's orders and go back to sleep. She had come to realize that rest was a gift while on the run. When she awoke once again several hours later, she was refreshed, a little less sore, and ready to reunite with her partner.

"_Hey…" _

"_Hey."_

"_Are we lost?"_

"_No, just looking at our options."_

Finally, Marta's recollection of the past twenty-four hours had caught up to her encounter with Aaron on-deck that morning. Her thoughts meandered back to the present.

At some point in the late afternoon, Marta wandered to the starboard side of the vessel and found a shaded hammock lolling between two wooden beams. Marta had always loved the open water, and she was grateful to find a perch with such a view of the sunset. She wondered when Aaron would be released from indentured servitude.

Finally, footsteps creaked near her perch, and Aaron appeared. Marta was relieved to see him still on his feet, though limping slightly. Nevertheless, he looked as strong as ever. _Amazing…_

As he stepped closer, she suddenly looked at him quizzically then smirked.

"What is it?" He asked; this was not the greeting he'd anticipated.

"Your face," she laughed. Aaron looked around confused. No mirror. _What could be funny about my face?_ And then he realized that his arms and hands were coated in oil and dirt from the day's labor. As he wiped the sweat from his face, the mess had ended up on his cheeks and forehead. _Oh, yeah…_

Aaron smirked and tossed Marta a banana as he approached. As she caught it, Aaron sat on the edge of the hammock, causing her to gasp as the hammock shifted. He laughed. "Oh, can I sit here?" He asked sarcastically after the fact.

"As long as you don't get me dirty." She extended a finger to playfully poke him in the side. A bead of sweat falling between his shoulder blades caught her eye. He still hadn't put a shirt on. _Not that I'm complaining…_ It took all of her willpower not to follow it with her eyes as it drifted down his spine, vertebrae by vertebrae; she swallowed in an attempt to bury the feelings he suddenly evoked.

Aaron smiled at her and sighed, his gaze falling to the deck. Marta could tell that he was tired. "Sorry that took all day," he sighed.

"It's ok," Marta reassured. She needed him to know that she was capable of entertaining herself. "How are you feeling?" She lightly touched his shoulder.

"Pretty good."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Thanks to you, Doc." He took her hand again. Again, like earlier, their fingers intertwined, though this time, Marta didn't feel compelled to apologize or to explain herself. They were equal.

"You used fishing line to sew me up, huh?" He asked, patting his leg.

Marta shifted in the hammock, sitting taller. Days before, she'd felt nauseous after learning about the real, not-so-ethical implications of her life's work. Now, she was nearly giddy with pride knowing that her knowledge and skills had been put to good use.

She nodded. "Only the best for you." They both laughed, and Marta realized that his thumb was making little circles over her knuckles.

"So, it looks like we're getting that vacation after all," Aaron began. "The captain is planning to meet up with some buddies in Port Barton. It's a fishing village on Palawan. It was another one of those options I mentioned. He said his cousin's wife runs a kitchen at one of the resorts there. Nothing extravagant, but he'd put us up for as long as we need to stay."

"Wow. Are you sure he's not too good to be true?"

Aaron laughed and flashed her a brief smile. "If he's going to kill us, at least it'll be in paradise." Marta was surprised at how at-ease Aaron was, how witty he was. He continued: "He said his cousin could drive us to Puerto Princesa when we're ready to get off the island." He paused, thinking, and then said, "This guy is something else. He doesn't ask any questions. I told him I was James, and you're June. That's it. And he seems to be o.k. with that."

"Must be the watch," Marta reminded him.

Aaron nodded. "Hell, I wish I had another one for this guy's cousin." They shared another laugh, and Marta heard more footsteps creak nearby, quieter footsteps. The fisherman's son appeared with two tin bowls. Aaron and Marta sat up straight like two obedient, starving children. The boy smiled and handed both bowls to Aaron, who handed one to Marta. He and Aaron had a quick, friendly exchange of words, and the boy left them alone to eat.

"Fish and rice, he said. With curry," Aaron translated. "His favorite."

Marta smiled. "He's a sweet kid."

"Yeah. Smart too. Incredible navigator."

They ate in a content silence then returned to their more relaxed positions once both bowls had been scraped clean. Marta peeled the banana Aaron had brought her. She offered it to him first. He took a bite then handed it back with a soft smile. Marta laughed quietly and shook her head.

"What?"

"Sorry, I've just never seen you so disheveled before. I wish you could see your face."

Aaron was amazed at how he could make her happy simply with his dirty face. He enjoyed hearing her laugh. He wondered if it would be this easy to make her happy if he actually tried. The thought both scared him, intimidated him, and excited him. It scared him because he was attached; he couldn't deny it. He had been warned of attachment. He understood why it was a dangerous thing: for his own sake, and for hers. _I can't lose her_. It intimidated him because, unlike Tagalog and Russian, romance was a foreign language. He knew that he could defend her with his skills and training. He knew that he could have a sexual relationship with her. On the other hand, he had no idea how to love her like she deserved, and that was the most important thing. _I can't lose her._ It excited him because he wanted her. He always had. And, maybe, now he had some kind of chance. _I can't lose her. _

_Damn feelings…. _

Aaron shook his head back to the moment, back to the conversation. "Good thing we're surrounded by water, huh?" There was a hint of cockiness in his tone. He had a point: there wasn't a functioning shower on the vessel. Suddenly, he was on his feet.

"You're not serious," she said, eyebrow raised. Though, she knew he was. They were anchored for the evening, and the sea was calm. "After all we've been through, I'm going to be disappointed if a shark is the end of you."

"I'll be careful, Doc." Aaron couldn't help but laugh at her bluntness. He was already halfway down the starboard side ladder: bandages, pants, and all. Marta shook her head and reclined in her hammock; although worried, she was enjoying his sudden bout of spontaneity.

Once he reached the water, Aaron submerged himself and let his body sink. The last time he'd done this, the water had been bone chilling. After Alaska, he decided never to travel anywhere cold. He despised being cold. And wolves. And drones. The depths of the Sulu, though, were warm and refreshing; he felt the sheen of fever-stricken sweat and dried blood fall away from him along with the grime of the day's work as he scoured his scalp, face, and arms. He floated on his back for a few moments admiring the luminous moon and stars. Closing his eyes, he listened intently to the trickle of the water as it lapped against the hull of the vessel. _So, this is peace, _he thought.

Opening his eyes, Aaron realized that the sea had carried him about ten yards from the ladder. Considering his wounds, swimming was not his forte; he slowly made his way back. He climbed gingerly aboard and gladly took Marta's outstretched arm as he reached the top rungs.

"Thanks." Safely on-deck, Aaron smiled as he shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair.

Anticipating his return to the deck, Marta collected a blanket. She handed it to him and smiled approvingly. "You look better."

"I feel better," he returned cheerfully, wrapping the blanket around his shoulders. Feeling refreshed, Aaron was ready to get down to business. Marta, on the other hand, was ready to sleep.

They walked quietly back to the table they'd shared that morning, where they placed their empty tin bowls. Aaron slowly sat down with his maps once again, using a flashlight to continue plotting, planning, calculating…

Before he directed his attention to the documents on the table, he looked to Marta who peered out toward the moonlit horizon. She held the rails gently, obviously comfortable at sea, her head tilted slightly in thought. Aaron was pleased to see her relaxed, and he admired how the sea complimented her personality, her aura.

_Really? Her aura? God, I'm fucked. _

Eyes transfixed on her, Aaron realized that he had already crossed some kind of line emotionally. There was no going back.

He couldn't tear his eyes away.

He didn't want to.

Marta could feel his eyes on her. It was unnerving, scary even – considering how stealthy and lethal he was. Not volatile, though. Aaron was calm, always calculating, and she knew with every fiber of her being that he would never think of hurting her. Whatever he was thinking, she was sure that he was analyzing every miniscule detail, every avenue and possible outcome. She turned toward him, slowly. As she anticipated, his eyes bore into her, and he was thinking: his fist supporting his temple, his elbow on the table, pensive.

They held each other's gaze for a moment, and Marta stepped closer to the table, slowly. To her, Aaron was like a wild animal that she didn't want to spook for fear of never regaining his trust. Tentatively, she spoke: "I'm going to go lie down. It's getting late." She looked around for a sign of their shipmates; they were all below deck, the day long behind them.

"Yeah," Aaron looked around in agreement; they were the last to call it a night. "I'll be down soon. You alright?" Aaron nodded toward their quarters. He had left her alone all day, and she'd been just fine. Now, he was concerned about the short flight of stairs and the doorway between the main deck and their quarters. It was too far away for his liking, and he didn't want her to be alone in the dark.

"Yeah, I think I'll make it." They shared a solemn smile. As Marta turned to walk away, she looked over her shoulder at him. "Goodnight, Aaron."

"Goodnight, Doc." _Goodnight, Marta…_

With Marta out of sight, Aaron suddenly felt chilled, or maybe it was loneliness. He turned the flashlight to the map and focused on the geography of Palawan for a moment. _We'll be in Port Barton by tomorrow evening. Then what? Where?_

_Just stay lost for a while. It's ok. You have time. There's no way they have eyes on us here. _

Aaron massaged his temples and squeezed his eyes shut.

_Letting go of control is the hardest thing._

He sat for a while longer: minutes, an hour at the most. He didn't bother checking the time. He contemplated the way the moon danced on the surface of water, which seemed to glow a deep violet in the night.

Finally, he stood gingerly, turned off the flashlight, and trudged below deck. He quietly secured the door of his and Marta's room behind him and took in his surroundings. Stillness. Moonlight streamed in through the single porthole, shedding enough light for Aaron to take in Marta's sleeping form: curled up on her right side, her forehead nearly touching the wall. Nothing seemed amiss; Aaron released the breath he'd been holding and quickly exchanged his wet clothing for a pair of khaki shorts and a tattered white shirt that the captain had placed in their room along with other assorted articles of clothing.

Aaron was careful to lie down as slowly as possible so as not to wake Marta. He turned onto his side, mimicking her position without touching her; he pulled a quilt up to his chin and let his fingertips lightly caress the back of her neck as he watched her shoulders move with each breath.

The chill he'd felt while alone on-deck was gone. In no time, he was lost in sleep.


	7. Chapter 05

**Chapter 05**

_There were two voices: one she recognized and one she didn't; both were muffled, as if she was underwater. _

_The one she recognized was clam, yet defeated. The one she didn't was stern, demanding._

_A dull, seemingly green hue of light surrounded her, and a cold object was heavy in her hand. _

_She lifted the object and pointed it at the source of the familiar voice._

"_Pull the trigger, and end this Dr. Shearing. It's time to go home," the unfamiliar voice spat._

"_It's bullshit, Marta. He wants us both dead. Remember what I told you? Don't forget. You've got to remember," the familiar voice pleaded._

_Thunder. Lightning. Pounding rain. Where the hell am I?_

"_Remember what I told you, Marta."_

"_Pull the trigger, Dr. Shearing."_

"_Remember."_

_She's still pointing the object at the source of the familiar voice. It's Aaron. He's soaked, hair matted, fear in his eyes. _

_A single gunshot rings out with a flash. A single gunshot, or was it a clap of thunder? The flash of a barreling bullet, or was it an impossibly close lightning strike?_

_She can't tell; now, there's only darkness. _

_Darkness. _

Then: "Marta?" A warm hand is on her shoulder.

"Hey, everything's o.k. Wake up."

It's Aaron's voice. He's alive. _Thank God…_

Marta's eyes fly open with a gasp. She can't catch her breath. Her sudden awakening catches him off guard, and he's unsure of how to comfort her. She peers through the darkness and takes in her surroundings: Aaron, pallet on the floor, porthole, wooden panels, black backpack. Nothing has changed since she fell asleep, except that he's beside her now. She tries to swallow her panic with an audible gulp. Finally, her eyes focus on his in the dark. There's enough moonlight to see concern in them, and the shadow plays on his furrowed brow.

"It was just a dream. You're alright." She takes comfort in reality and nods hurriedly; still, fear is written all over her face.

"You're alright?" She questions anxiously, worriedly. This confuses him. _Jesus, what were you dreaming? _He can only imagine; whatever it was, he must have been involved. She was clearly shaken.

"Yeah, I'm fine." With a comforting smile, he takes her hand in his and slowly raises it to his cheek for reassurance. Her eyes flutter shut when her hand makes contact with his face, and her breath audibly catches in her chest. "Just a dream," he murmurs as his lips brush against her palm.

He's propped up on his right elbow next to her, though he feels an urgent need to be closer, to protect her even if danger is nothing but a projection of her subconscious. Aaron has never felt such an overwhelming need for closeness, and for once in his life, it's an urge he can't fight.

Before he can rationalize his need, he's closed the space between them, and he easily cradles her head in his left hand as he leans in close, pressing his cheek against hers. Marta is light and fragile in his arms, and this realization fuels his desire to protect her.

He feels her tense briefly against him, and he panics inwardly for a moment thinking his impulsive move has frightened her even more. She relaxes then, before he can convince himself to pull away, and he feels her hands on him: one at the base of his skull, the other on his lower back.

He's relieved that she doesn't push him away. On the contrary, she pulls him closer. He's completely lost in her now, and he has no idea what to do or say next. His mind seems to switch off, and all he's aware of is her cheek against his, her hands, and the rise and fall of her chest. He lets his lips brush her ear and searches for reassuring words.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," he whispers resolutely.

She shivers. He slowly pulls away then, lifting his head to find her eyes.

"Aaron…" Her hand is still holding the back of his neck, and her fingertips are slowly moving into his hair, just like in Manila. He loves the way his name looks on her lips, loves the way it sounds. In this moment, he's no longer "Five." _She finally sees me. _His whispered name is not a question, not a statement. It's an invitation: one he feels confident accepting.

He leans in again and touches his lips to hers as gently as he can; gentleness is new to him, and he trembles slightly, worried that he will hurt her. He opens his eyes to survey her reaction. When she feels his gaze, she opens her eyes and silently pleads with him.

_I can't lose you. _The thought crosses both minds, and they wonder how, in mere days, they've grown so dependent on one another, in more ways than one.

Finally, he kisses her. _She wants this too. _

His kiss is fierce but gentle, as though he needs to convey with contact what words cannot. For years, he's wanted to know her beyond the examination room. For years, he's tried to talk to her, to wake her from a scientific coma. For years, these feelings have been forbidden. And now, on a dingy fishing boat in the Philippines, here she is in his arms. _Who the hell would have thought?_

He reluctantly pulls away, still cupping her face and neck with one large, strong hand. When Marta opens her eyes, the look in them is priceless; without words, she tells him that he is not a lab rat, but a man: a very desirable man. _Damn…_

He has enough of his wits about him now, despite the ego boost, to know that he can't take things further tonight. _She just woke up screaming. You can't take advantage of how vulnerable she is, for Christ's sake._

One more kiss, and he touches his forehead to hers and reads her eyes, making sure she's alright. He finds nothing but contentment, desire, sleepiness, and wonder in them; there's no sign of alarm. He kisses her cheek, her temple, and collapses next to her, pulling her against him.

"Go back to sleep," he says huskily while nuzzling the back of her neck. No more words are needed. His arm is draped snuggly over her torso; her hand finds his and holds it tight.

They sleep until the morning sun warms the sea once again.


	8. Chapter 06

What do you think so far? More to come soon!

**Chapter 06**

The phone rings three times. Byer grows increasingly impatient as he waits for the enigmatic Dr. Sorenson to answer the call. He's never met Dr. Sorenson in person; they've only spoken several times and only regarding Outcome X. Based on what Byer has heard of Sorenson's voice, he envisions a pale, white-haired old man who wears bowties and doesn't get out of the lab much. Byer doesn't find humor in this visual, though; he doesn't like to wait.

He finally hears a faint click on the line.

"Byer."

He wastes no time.

"We have to engage Outcome X."

"I was told that all Program Participants were shut down."

_Shit._

"There are two left: Outcome X and Outcome Five. They're working together."

"What is their position?"

"They're off the coast of Palawan: 10°28'32"north and 119°14'50"east."

"Do you have eyes on them?"

"We're tracking them remotely. We have LARX on standby."

"Why don't you just send in a drone?"

"That generally works in special operations training territory in rural Alaska. There's no need to cover it up because there's no one fucking there."

Byer pauses for effect. _Are you out of your damn mind? We're not sending a fucking drone. _He continues:

"We try to pull that off in the Philippines, and the U.S. embassy will flip their shit."

"Can't you just call it an anti-terrorism campaign? Knock out some insurgents in Mindanao while you're at it?" There's a hint of sarcasm on the line.

"No." The tone of his voice indicates that there's no room for argument or for humor.

"So, you want to engage Outcome X. Why?"

"We need information about Outcome Five, her partner in crime. We need to know how in the hell he evaded Program Shutdown. We need to know if he was really able to viral off. She'll be able to tell us. And we need her for the science. Rather than kill her on the spot, we'll bring her back in. Then we'll shut her down quietly after she's debriefed."

"What about Outcome Five?"

"She'll take him out. He's too much of a risk to be brought in alive."

"Why don't you just have LARX finish him off and bring her in?"

"He already took out LARX Three. We can't afford to lose another one. He's too dangerous. The fewer Agents in the field, the better. There's too much at stake."

He releases a frustrated breath.

"We can't have Agents chasing each other around major cities drawing more attention to themselves and, consequently, to us. Bourne has caused enough trouble. Manila is pissed at us; apparently there were multiple casualties there when LARX was in pursuit."

Byer paused.

"Plus, it'll be more fun to turn her into a robot."

_Sin Eater. Sin Eater. Sin Eater._

"If you insist."

Another pause.

"I insist. So, what are the tech specs? How do we use our machine?"

"That depends on our window of time. When was her last chem?"

"Twenty-four days ago. Why?"

"Her specialized intramuscular chems are administered during routine medical exams every three months, give or take. If she misses a regular chem, she'll start to degrade just like the others. I'd say she's got approximately two months before she begins to degrade. You're still tracking her with the chip, right?"

"Affirmative. If she degrades before we can use her, then what?"

"She dies, plain and simple; all Outcome Agents were designed this way for security. If they get far enough out of our reach, they become ticking time bombs; it's an internal shutdown mechanism. But, even if she degrades, you can still use her to track Outcome Five…if they're indeed working together, as you say."

"They won't separate, as long as they're both alive. What if we have a shot at using her before she degrades?"

"You have to turn her on."

"Sounds like a good time."

The voice on the other line is not amused; he continues:

"You have to find a way to get in touch with her, either in person or over the phone. A code phrase has been instilled during brainwashing. That's the trigger. Once she hears the phrase, she'll do your bidding until you…turn her off."

"I know how Manchurian Candidates operate. I've seen the movie, for God's sake." There's an unpleasant sarcasm in Byer's voice. Yes, he's seen the movie; he's a fan of political thrillers. Moreover, he's been formally trained in the arts of the intelligence underworld: brainwashing, enhanced interrogation, even the science that gave birth to Outcome.

"Perhaps you should read the book as well, my friend," the voice counters. "The longer you wait, the more likely she is to degrade or figure it all out. She's pretty savvy, as you know. You took a risk when you chose her to be your Safety Net."

Byer's demeanor sobers. He closes his eyes and raises a hand to cradle his crinkled forehead. He doesn't want to admit that the worst-case scenario is unfolding before him.

The voice on the line continues in a softer voice, as if it can sense Byer's frustration. "With Five's help, she's fully capable of discovering that she's an Agent."

"How?" Byer asks, but he already knows.

"They think they're off the grid. If they even sense eyes on them, they'll start to suspect that they're being tracked. They're smart; they know how to tell if they've been bugged. Five knows how, at least; he's been trained to get rid of bugs other than the one we implanted."

"So basically, we trained them to evade us. He got rid of our chip in Alaska, for Christ's sake. That's how he escaped the drone strike. He's a sneaky one; that's why we're still chasing his ass."

The voice on the line is defensive but calm and resolute. "We created something smarter than us in hopes that complete Program Shutdown would never be necessary. No one could have predicted that this Jason Bourne mess would be such a detriment to the other Programs."

Pause. _Isn't it our job to predict this shit? _Byer grinds his teeth. _Isn't that what intelligence is all about?_

The voice on the line continues, changing the subject. "You've seen the movie, so you know the psychological effects of the brainwashing she's endured."

"Some subjects experience vivid nightmares, flashbacks to brainwashing, a subconscious fear of being used as a cog in the machine…of not having control of one's own thoughts or actions. It's not pretty. And, in Outcome's case, it gets worse as one starts to degrade; the lack of chems starts fucking with the head."

"Bingo: classic withdrawal. Between the two of them, they can put the pieces together. They could find her chip. She could have psychological cues that Five has been trained to recognize. In either case, they become more dangerous because they're further out of our reach."

"But even if she gets rid of her chip…we can still track her."

"Correct. We have our ways. Let's not get ahead of ourselves; we'll only talk about that if it becomes a necessity."

Byer doesn't like cryptic scientists, especially when they have more control over Programs than he does. Byer's life is centered on control…control of Programs, of employees, of classified operations, of emotions. Science has both blessed and cursed his existence; at this moment, science has a chokehold on him. His breathing is shallow. Through gritted teeth, he starts to wrap up the conversation.

"So, there are three possible scenarios. One: she degrades and dies. We lose her before we can debrief her, and Five is on his own and untraceable. Two: they figure out she's part of the Program and become ridiculously hard to find. She still runs the risk of degrading if we don't get to her. Or, three: we move-in quietly. We turn her on and make her shut Five down."

There's a pause for consideration. "Yes."

"I'd say the choice is pretty clear."

"Then it's just a matter of when and where you intercept them."

"I'll call you back." Before the voice on the line has a chance to respond, Byer hangs up. He massages his temples.

_This is just like a game of "Where in the World is Carmen Sandiego," _Byer think_s. Really, it's more like "Where in the World is the Mad Scientist and the Mutant."_ _The ending to this story will be far from child's play._

Byer considers the note and memento that Cross left for him in Manila. _"NO MORE_," Cross wrote, his Program-issued chem box hanging unneeded on the grimy hotel mirror.

In his softer moments, Byer thinks that all men deserve a shot at self-actualization, an ideal that his beloved country was founded upon. In his softer moments, he might contemplate letting Cross and Shearing have that chance; he might contemplate letting them live in peace in exchange for their silence. _Not this time – too much at stake. _

Byer doesn't experience many softer moments.

He can't allow a genetically enhanced Agent and a high-ranking support staff member, who happens to be an Agent herself, roam free.

_They know too much. They're capable of too much. They're more complicated than Bourne. They could bring down NRAG, Beta Programs, and…everything…simply by existing. The FDA hasn't even sanctioned the chems or what we've done to their chromosomes, for God's sake. If the science that went into Outcome is revealed, the whole damn Agency is fucked._

_This makes waterboarding look like a tea party. _

"When you're dead, Cross…that's when there'll be 'NO MORE.'"

Byer's reflection time is over; there's work to be done.


	9. Chapter 07

**Chapter 07**

Marta awakes to a familiar scene; just like the previous morning, she's wrapped in old quilts in their quarters with the wooden panels and the porthole. Unlike the day before, there's an arm – an arm that doesn't belong to her – wrapped snuggly around her torso. _Aaron…Aaron's arm._ Heat radiates against her back: the heat of another body, the warm breeze of his exhale against her shoulder. And then, she remembers:

"_I won't let anyone hurt you."_

_We kissed. _

She tries to replay the scene and re-feel the feelings. Her toes curl around the floral sheets of their pallet as she recalls the crumbling of physical barriers.

Then she remembers why she had so suddenly been pulled from sleep: her dream. She dwells on it for a moment, pondering its significance…if any. She's grateful when Aaron stirs behind her, stirring her out of her mental funk.

As he wakes, she runs her fingertips lightly up and down the arm that's still holding her. She marvels at the goose bumps that texturize his skin as her fingertips dance over it. He shivers slightly, and she feels his forehead nuzzle the back of her neck.

Marta recalls their conversation about tweaking his chromosomes: _"Intelligence, obviously, but it's more than that…it's neuro regeneration and elasticity…sensory function…"_

Sensory function. It's become quite clear that he reacts to her touch, that he's drawn to it, especially within the last seventy-two hours. In his weakest moments, he's reached for her hand for comfort. He's dropped his head to her shoulder in exhaustion. He's pressed his face to hers for closeness in the dark. Now, even his enhanced nervous system goes into overdrive in response to the lightest touch. It's an engineered trait that's dangerously endearing. And yet, it's so entirely human – so entirely Aaron – at the same time.

Marta gently lifts his heavy arm so that she can turn to face him. Comfortably adjusted, she sets his arm down in the same place, and it instinctively pulls her closer. He's barely awake, and she deduces that witnessing Aaron in this state of sleepiness is rare.

"Hey," she breathes, her hand against his bicep.

"Hey." He's groggy, but pleasant. "You get some sleep?"

She smiles. "Yeah, after you saved me from my nightmare." She tries to make light of the experience, but it still evokes uneasiness in the pit of her belly. She pushes it aside, not wanting him to read her feelings, as she knows he's capable of doing so easily.

"Good." His eyes adjust to the morning light quickly.

"How are you?" She's still squinting.

He considers her question as he stretches his limbs and cracks his neck. "My leg hurts more today," he says matter-of-factly.

"Let me look at it. I need to change those bandages anyway." Marta's request is firm, yet concerned. _You're not his mother. Calm down._

"No," he whines, almost like a child, as he turns toward her and pushes his forehead into her neck. Her hypothesis-of-sorts regarding his sensory function is upheld, in a way. Having been starved of human contact as an Agent, he's beginning to seek comfort in closeness.

He stays there for a few moments then reluctantly pulls away. He turns onto his back and threads his fingers together under his head. "Sorry, I'm just being a guy."

"Stubborn?"

"Chicken."

"I promise I'll be gentle. I can't speak for the alcohol, though."

Aaron just sighs. "What's up with that, Doc? I thought you fixed me. What happened to pain suppression?"

Marta swats his arm. "A few more years of research, and I could have made you bulletproof."

"Aaron 2.0." He's smiling at her: a real smile. And, he's learning that she's susceptible to teasing; he likes this.

Marta rolls her eyes. "You know, I kind of like that about you."

"What, that I'm a stubborn chicken-shit? That you didn't make me bulletproof?"

"No. That you're a guy."

He shoots her a quizzical look as a smirk plays on his lips.

She just smiles at him, enjoying the lighthearted moment.

It's clear that their relationship has evolved. Neither of them wants to overstep any boundaries, though. It's not that waking up this way has been awkward; on the other hand, it's been the only truly peaceful experience of their time together. Neither of them wants to risk ruining it.

Marta convinces Aaron to let her clean and dress his wounds. Now with shorts on, she's spared the awkwardness of having to undress him once again. _After last night, it's a whole new ballgame when pants start coming off._

They take turns freshening up in the makeshift bathroom – no shower – and head up to the main deck for food and updates from their host.

The fisherman's son has decided that he will teach Marta Tagalog as they eat. They take turns pointing to various objects, exchanging translations, and repeating words like "fish," "boat," "sea," "boy," and "girl." She glances at Aaron who looks up from his food and smiles, eyes shining in the sun as they had the day before when she'd expressed her desire to be lost with him. She wants to hold his gaze for longer but decides that would be inappropriate.

Like Aaron, the boy seems to read her so easily. "He is your boyfriend?" He asks in broken English with a mischievous smile.

Marta looks at him wide-eyed, then to Aaron, then back to the boy. _I don't know what the hell he is._

"Yeah, my boyfriend," she smiles awkwardly. Glancing back to Aaron, she sees that he is smiling gently, approvingly. This puts her at ease, though she wonders if it's just a cover.

_I guess he is my…unconventional boyfriend. He did kiss me. And that wasn't a cover._

The boy stands and says, "Be right back, o.k." Marta gives him a friendly smile and nods. In his absence, Marta feels a need to fill the silence. "He's a lot like my nephew. About the same age too."

Aaron studies her and waits for her to continue.

"Same sense of humor. And he's such a little athlete too – great hockey player."

He's still listening intently.

"My sister lives in Montreal. She's a scientist too. We went to school together. I mean, she went to Berkeley undergrad and I went to Emory. I guess she's more of a free spirit, you could say. We both ended up at Johns Hopkins for graduate school. She's into more of the neuroscience stuff. She's two years younger." Marta makes a gesture with her hand as if she's brushing off the "neuroscience stuff," as if her virology is infinitely more intriguing and complicated. Aaron smiles inwardly at this.

She pauses. Aaron is no therapist, but he decides it's good to let her talk through this.

"Her husband – my brother-in-law – died two years ago," she says matter-of-factly. "He fell asleep in the car on his way home from work one night. He was supposed to meet Liza at Ethan's hockey game."

Aaron blinks, looks down at the deck, then back to Marta.

"Her name is Eliza, but I dropped the "E" when we were kids. I try to spend some time with them, when I can. It's been hard for them. She works, so it's hard for her to spend as much time with Ethan now."

Marta casts her eyes toward the sea for a moment then shakes her head in an attempt to sober up. "Sorry for that," she says quietly but with a slight smile. "I guess I just miss them."

In another time, Aaron might have said something insensitive like, "You need to put thoughts of them aside," or, "You can't go back." Now, though, he won't let himself cut her with words; he cares too much.

"It's ok," he says instead. He gently takes her hand in both of his. "You'll see them again."

Her desire to kiss him the night before was strong as ever, but his reassurance that she'd see her only family members again nearly moved her to attack him with affection. She refrained, though. Instead, a tear escaped onto her cheek: a symbol of release. Aaron understood her. He lifted one of his hands to the small of her back, making sure that the entire surface of his palm made contact with the material of her shirt as his hand moved in a slow, circular pattern.

"Thank you," she whispered. She knew Aaron well enough to be certain he wasn't bluffing. Aaron chose his words carefully; he wouldn't make a promise he couldn't keep.

"We'll find a way," he returned, his voice low and confident.

Once again, they heard the boy's light footsteps nearby. He appeared with a smile and returned to his seat next to Marta. "Right back, see?"

This lightened the mood, and Marta giggled. "Here you are."

"You get off boat today?" he asked in English. Marta felt like a lame duck as the only monolingual member of the conversation. She looked toward Aaron for an answer.

"Yes," he said for Marta's benefit. He continued in Tagalog, explaining to the boy that they'd be staying in Port Barton with his relatives. He then translated his response to Marta, who stiffened at the thought of being back on land. She felt untraceable at sea, safe and free, as if an impenetrable moat surrounded them.

Aaron admitted inwardly that he felt a similar twinge of uncertainty in his belly, but he knew that they couldn't stay on that boat; rather than a safe haven, it was a floating trap. Should there be a confrontation at sea, the only escape would surely be to drown. On land, at least they could run. So far, running had worked in their favor.

The last thing he wanted was for Marta to sense his own uneasiness. _No way. Not going to happen. She really is a warrior, but I have to be her rock._


	10. Chapter 08

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**Chapter 08**

Aaron continued to study his maps into the early afternoon. Marta watched as he took notes. She enjoyed watching the wheels turn in his head; he was meticulous, though not robotic. He'd stop every few minutes and let his mind come back to reality. Usually, he'd give her a soft smile, scan the horizon, take a deep breath, and return to his work. Several times, he'd stood gingerly and left her to speak with the captain. She overheard one of their conversations and admired Aaron's seemingly perfect Tagalog. She guessed that they were discussing the geography of Port Barton and the surrounding area. Aaron confirmed her guess when he proceeded to share the details.

"So, apparently this beach we're staying at is beautiful. He says the resort is only a little fancier than our boat, though." Aaron patted the wooden table for effect, "but at least we get a shower…a cold shower." Marta smirked, and Aaron continued. "The whole town only has electricity for several hours a day, from early evening until midnight. It's the offseason, so there won't be many other…tourists…around."

_Does he assume I can't handle anything less than a five-star resort? I can do rustic. _Marta is not all that concerned about the quality of their accommodations_._ "But we can stay lost for a while?" she asks shyly.

"Yes," he replies. Aaron knows she's tired. Hell, he was tired too. And he could stand to let his body heal before their next move. They had a narrow window of time in Port Barton before…what? He didn't know. Surely, someone from NRAG would be savvy enough to figure out that they'd taken to the sea; surely, they'd eventually be found. He would give Marta a chance to relax, though; it was the least he could do.

It sounded to Marta as though Aaron was apologizing in advance for taking her to a dreadful place. Marta would discover late that afternoon, as she set foot on the whitest sand she'd ever seen, that Port Barton was, in fact, anything but dreadful. She and Aaron said a heartfelt goodbye to their shipmates who would be fishing around the bay for the next two weeks; they planned to catch up for dinner or drinks at some point.

Aaron took Marta's hand as they left the dock and headed up the beach; he turned to wave to the fisherman's son and caught Marta wide-eyed as she took in the magnificent panorama and the rich late-afternoon light. He couldn't hide his smile; the scenery was stunning, yes. But so was she.

"What?" she asked innocently, and he suddenly realized that he was still looking at her out of the corner of his eye as they walked side-by-side, hand-in-hand. By that time, Marta could feel eyes on her; it was a skill she'd picked up since they'd left the States. _That's good_, Aaron thought, _but so much for stealing a look without being caught._

"Nothing," he said innocently, shaking his head. Marta knew better. Changing the subject, he squeezed her hand and caught her eyes. "James and June, remember? From Bethesda. We're on our honeymoon backpacking through The Philippines on our way to Malaysia."

"Yes, dear," Marta replied, giving his hand a squeeze back. She enjoyed the thought of being newlyweds. Based on their chemistry the night before, she was sure they made a convincing couple outwardly. Inwardly, the butterflies in Marta's belly went wild at the prospect of doing what newlyweds do. She had to scold herself for that. _Take it easy. You have to stay focused. Don't expect a fairy tale._

The captain had given Aaron thorough directions to their resort, but it wasn't difficult to find the lush gardens he'd described a bit further up the beach. He had also given Aaron a voucher for accommodations in the form of a handwritten note to his cousin's wife – the one who ran the resort's kitchen. When they found the concierge, Aaron asked politely for Malaya, who turned out to be a sweet woman nearing the end of middle-age, her hair done up in a neat bun. She smiled warmly at the new guests as she entered the room. The concierge handed her the note and explained the circumstances. The two staff members conversed quietly for a moment before it appeared as though they had come to an agreement.

Malaya turned her attention to the two guests, scanning them from head to toe. She smiled then, apparently satisfied with the note and with their appearance.

"Welcome! We are so glad you are here," she exclaimed in singsong English. "What are your names?"

"I'm James, and this is my wife, June," Aaron responded pleasantly. "Our backpacking trip hasn't exactly gone according to plan, but we sure are glad to be here." He put his arm around Marta's shoulders: her cue to smile and nod in agreement. "Yes, thank you so much!" Marta added.

"You are a friend of my family. I will take care of you," Malaya said graciously.

"Thank you," Aaron finished. Marta had discovered that there was a direct correlation between the depth of Aaron's voice and his level of sincerity: the deeper the conversation, the deeper his voice. _With all these thoughts about Aaron, I'm beginning to think my sensory function has been enhanced too…_

"Let me take you to your cottage," Malaya said as she led them toward their accommodations. "Since it's not our busy time of year, we have vacancy." She seemed excited to have guests to cook for; life in the already lazy town was especially slow at the time.

They arrived at the front of a small, though charming, bamboo bungalow. Marta's reaction to its "cuteness" wasn't an act; she wouldn't mind calling the cottage home for a while. After giving them the grand tour of the cottage, Malaya explained the protocol for electricity use in the evenings and told them about the best Internet connection in town at one of the cafés down the beach.

"Come early for dinner tonight, and I'll tell you the best islands to visit. I know the best snorkeling spots. You eat, and we'll talk." Aaron and Marta accepted enthusiastically and waved goodbye as she cheerfully made her way back to the restaurant.

"I really wish I had another gold watch for her," Aaron said bluntly, shutting the front door.

Marta laughed. "I guess you'll just have to give her a share of your forty-thousand dollars instead."

Simultaneously, Aaron and Marta released the breath they'd been holding since setting foot on land once again. _So far so good_, Aaron thought.

Marta busied herself exploring their cottage, making a beeline for the bathroom. "Oh, thank God," she sighed, admiring the clean shower. _What a girl._

Aaron smirked, though he was focused on unloading and taking inventory of the contents of his backpack: their only possessions. He found two handguns, limited ammunition, and a multi-tool. Next, he dug out three cell phones and a handful of SIM cards in a zip-lock bag, his leather jacket, their counterfeit passports and wallets, a basic first aid kit, and airplane food. They had ditched most of the clothes that had accompanied them from the States, though Aaron found Marta's grey hoodie and two extra shirts. He set aside the other assorted knick-knacks he'd accumulated.

Aaron was an expert packer. He had always amazed himself with how much he could fit into even the smallest pack when preparing for missions. Not to mention the fact that many of his assets were hidden strategically on his body, like the third handgun – this one loaded – tucked into the back of the khaki pants he'd donned in place of shorts, the knife strapped to his ankle, and the fake identification and cash stashed under the insole of his boot. He felt ridiculous, though, in this tiny beach town with black boots, pants, and weapons. _We're too obvious – got to get out of these clothes._

Marta stood next to him and observed as he organized the items. _Program Participants sure have obsessive compulsive tendencies_, she thought. _But, I guess that's how they stay alive. _

Aaron felt Marta staring. It was his turn to ask, "What?"

"Nothing," she returned absently. He narrowed his eyes at her with mock suspicion.

"We've got to get out of these clothes," Aaron said. "You like shopping, right?"

"So, because I'm a female I must like shopping?"

"Don't you?"

Marta considers for a moment. "Yeah, I guess I do," she said thoughtfully. Aaron was somewhat sure that she was just giving him a hard time.

"Let's go." Aaron quickly hides one of the guns in the bed frame and stuffs the most important items back into his backpack. He shoulders the backpack, and a wad of cash is stuffed into his pocket as they head out the door. Once in the sun, Aaron slows his pace and gently takes Marta's hand. He leans in close so that his breath tickles her ear. "We're not on a mission…we're on our honeymoon, remember?" She gives him a sincere look to convey her understanding and rolls her shoulders in an attempt to loosen up. A witness of the exchange might deduce that Aaron had whispered some romantic sweet nothing in her ear. _Relax, relax, relax_ went Marta's mental mantra.

The concierge recommended a shop up the beach frequented by visitors. As Aaron suspected, it was either beach clothes or…beach clothes. They explained to the shop owner that that their luggage had been lost in transit from Puerto Princesa. "Stuff tends to fall of those Jeepneys, you know," Aaron joked, totally convincing. They purposefully made their way through the small store and ended up with two new wardrobes consisting of typical beachwear. And flip-flops; Aaron despised flip-flops. _Nobody ever won a gunfight wearing flip-flops._

Luckily, Aaron had changed a substantial amount of American dollars into Philippine pesos while waiting for Marta to pass through customs at the airport in Manila; he had plenty of cash for their shopping spree and more. Marta would later learn that there were no ATM's in town; once again she was thankful that he was always a step ahead. _How does he anticipate these kinds of things? _

They headed back to the resort hand-in-hand and met-up with Malaya for dinner. It had been a while since their last substantial hot meal, and when Malaya set two large plates in front of them, the potent aroma of the local fare woke their ravenous appetites. They tore into their food without regard for manners. Marta couldn't remember a meal she'd enjoyed as much.

The restaurant was desolate by the time darkness fell. Malaya chatted cheerfully as Aaron and Marta took their last bites. She wished them a pleasant evening when she excused herself to close up for the night. Feeling relaxed, Aaron asked for a local beer to take back to the cottage. Having never acquired a taste for beer, Marta declined Aaron's offer for one of her own. It was a treat to watch him indulge in the drink, though; she enjoyed the way he closed his eyes and tilted his head back with each swig.

"Go ahead and get cleaned-up first," Aaron said gently when they arrived at the cottage. "I know you've been waiting all day."

"Alright, thanks," she returned with a soft smile while holding his gaze a bit longer than necessary. As she entered the cottage, she looked back over her shoulder: Aaron left the front door open so that he could hear the water running and have visual confirmation that nothing was amiss. He reclined in the hammock on the porch, flip-flops dangling from his toes. He held his beer like a prized possession, his eyes narrowed toward the sea. Marta smirked: _my Guardian… _

Aaron had always been one to embrace his alone time. He could occupy his mind for hours without the company of others. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy being sociable. Perhaps, on the other hand, having once been dull and slow, he simply appreciated the company of his own enhanced intellect. He had to admit, though, how grateful he was to have Marta as his companion. Had circumstances been different, he might have thought company to be a nuisance, or worse, a liability…but not her. In the days they'd spent together, he'd become more attached to her than he'd ever been to another individual.

Aaron enjoyed words, and as he listened to lazy waves break over a dark shore, he searched his brain for the right one to describe Marta.

_My…prisoner…my…collateral. No. I gave her a chance to be free of me. My…doctor…my…friend…my partner, my savior, my weakness, my strength, my…lover?_

_So, now we're back to that._

_You're a God damned human. It's o.k. to want her. It was o.k. to kiss her. Hell, it was more than o.k._

_Desire is dangerous. Love is suicide._

There was only one downside to such a keen intellect: sometimes he was guilty of thinking too much. Aaron lifted the bottle to his lips and took a long drink. Like his relationships, his alcohol intake had been strictly monitored as a Program Participant. He found his current state to be terribly ironic: idyllic beach, naked woman in the shower, and beer in-hand.

_Naked woman. _

He looked over his shoulder toward the light streaming from the cottage. The door to the bathroom was cracked to allow for airflow. He could still hear the whine of the showerhead; she was safe and probably enjoying her alone time equally as much. Aaron turned his attention back toward the sea and decided to flip the switch in his head to "off."

_Stop thinking about her strategically, like she's a mission, and stop thinking about the worst possible scenario. Just stop thinking. Go with the flow._

_But I'm a killer. I'm a Sin Eater._

_No._

_I'm a man. Not a bad man. That's all. _

Then, there's quiet in the cottage. The water stops. He looks back over his shoulder just in time to see the woman who has consumed his mind step lightly out of the bathroom wrapped from chest to thigh in a towel. She doesn't feel his eyes on her because she's busy looking for something.

"Aaron?" She calls to him.

"Yeah?" he returns nonchalantly, trying to sound far away, as though he isn't so keenly aware of her.

"I didn't pick-up something to sleep in today. Can I borrow your boxers?"

_Sweet Jesus._

"Uh, yeah. Sure. I bought extras." Aaron rarely stumbles over anything, but suddenly, words seem treacherous, and he's reduced to a nervous adolescent once again.

"Thanks."

"Mm, hmm." He's too focused on slowing his heart rate to search for words.

Soon, Marta is leaning on the doorframe watching him. His eyes dart over her quickly, taking her in; this, thankfully, is something he's good at. If she notices, she doesn't let on. She's wearing his grey boxers and the navy tank she'd had on when she injected him with live virus.

"Enjoy your beer?" She asks quietly.

"Absolutely," Aaron says with a relaxed smile. "Enjoy your shower?"

"Yeah," Marta nods, returning his smile. "Your turn," she says, tossing him a towel.

"You didn't use all the hot water did you?"

"You're funny." Marta gives sarcasm right back to him, along with a poke in the shoulder – his good shoulder. There was no hot water, and Aaron could barely make out the remnants of goose bumps on her arms as he stood. He took his shirt off right there so that she could tend to his bad shoulder, and he noted the blush this brought to her face; she wouldn't meet his eyes.

"You're good," she said quietly when she was satisfied with his healing flesh. "I'll bandage you up again in the morning." Her fingertips stay on his skin, and they move down his shoulder, to his bicep, to his wrist where she tentatively retracts her hand. Before he can react, she takes his place in the hammock allowing him the privacy of the cottage.

He stands there awkwardly for a moment before sobering up and trudging inside.

_Don't be a pussy, Cross._

Thoughts like these make him wish he were an unassuming half-wit once again; at least life was simple. On the other hand, the complication of having this woman in his life was better than the alternative. He'd take the complication over not having her at all.

Aaron takes a quick shower. The cold water reminds him of Alaska, and Alaska reminds him of wolves. He doesn't want to think about the past. He dries off and dresses in boxers and a white t-shirt for the night. For the first time since Manila, he takes in his reflection in the mirror. _I look tired. _The bed is calling.

"Hey, are you done in here?" Aaron calls as he steps out of the bathroom, ready to turn out the light for the night. He receives no response. His eyes land on the bed, where Marta is already curled up on the far side. She'd left the side closest to the door for him, knowing it's what he'd want for their safety. She's fast asleep. Aaron exhales and takes one last look out the front door before securing it. He takes inventory of all three of his guns before turning out the lights and sitting on the edge of the bed.

Aaron carefully lifts his injured leg onto the bed and slips under the covers. He sprawls on his back and closes his eyes in an attempt to slow his mind. He doesn't want to move for fear of waking Marta. Somehow, though, he ends up on his side close to her; having fallen half-asleep, he instinctively seeks out her heat. Aaron wonders if his gravitation toward her is all instinct…or all desire.

Fully awake once again and keenly aware of her as he'd been when she was wrapped in only a towel, Aaron tentatively places his hand on her hip: an invitation for her to wrap herself in his arm or…not. He's not sure if he wants her to accept his invitation or to be too lost in sleep to feel it; either would be better than rejection, he reasons.

He's succeeded in slowing his mind, but his heart rate escalates when she stirs and reaches for him. She wraps herself around his arm, their hands joined under her chin. Aaron notes the proximity of his hand to her chest, but he's overwhelmed by the innocence of the position she's created. Once again, he's overcome with desires of all kinds, but most of all, he wants to protect her, to uphold her innocence, even if only in sleep.

Aaron settles against Marta's back and hopes she'll find enough comfort in his embrace to evade whatever terror she'd dreamed the night before.


	11. Chapter 09

**Chapter 09**

Dr. Gregor Sorenson loved his adopted homeland. Norwegian by birth, he was always fond of the old adage, "Home is Where the Heart is." His heart was home in Canada. More specifically, he adored Montreal, where he conducted his research in neuropsychology.

Sorenson was generally a cheerful man, loved by his graduate students and colleagues alike. He was known to keep up with the goings-on in their lives because he genuinely cared. He'd never had children of his own, and his Korean wife, Grace, had passed six years ago. Everyone knew that his heart was still broken, but he hid it well with his concern for his friends in academia.

He shared a particular bond with one of his colleagues, Dr. Eliza Thomas, whose husband had died suddenly two years ago. He understood her grief, and they'd often found themselves sharing memories of their lost loved ones instead of reviewing the latest journals on their science. Having lost her parents to age, Dr. Thomas found a father figure in Dr. Sorenson, and he may as well have been her son Ethan's surrogate grandfather. For this, Sorenson knew that Dr. Thomas was grateful, and he was more than happy to be there for both of them.

Ethan loved Sorenson's accent, and Sorenson had him convinced that he'd been the best hockey player in Norway as a young man. This, of course, was a white lie; Sorenson was never an athlete. When Ethan begged him to go skating, he was thankful to have old age on his side as an excuse not to lace-up. "I'm too old, my boy," he'd say. "I'll watch you from here."

Sorenson enjoyed watching Ethan's pure happiness on the ice; he'd skate on the pond at the University commons until his mother would come down from her office at dusk, ready to go home. She'd show mock frustration when he refused to take off his skates, but inwardly, she was thankful that her son had found something other than sadness to occupy his time. She hoped, with time, she'd be able to do the same. Sorenson knew that Ethan needed a means to escape the anguish of losing his father; the ice was it.

Dr. Sorenson sat in his office alone on most nights with the company of his books, his memories, and his glass of Scotch. Tonight, instead of nostalgia, Dr. Sorenson's mind was consumed with the latest grief-stricken conversation he'd shared with Dr. Thomas. Just when he thought that she was beginning to smile again, she'd come to him with more dreadful news: her older sister, Marta, was missing following a workplace shooting.

At first, he'd expressed his deepest sympathies and told Dr. Thomas that, as always, he'd do whatever he could to help. Dr. Thomas explained that, though Marta had never accompanied her to work, she had visited often since Stephen, Ethan's father, died. "I wish I could have introduced you, Gregor," Dr. Thomas told him through her tears. "She did research too." Sorenson was deeply disturbed by Dr. Thomas's use of past tense; she referred to her sister as though she was surely dead.

Dr. Sorenson was especially melancholy on this particular night; he'd consumed more than his usual glass of Scotch to prove it. Alone in his office, he found himself transfixed on the flames dancing in his fireplace. Every once in a while, a gust of wind would find its way down the chimney flue, and the tempo of the dance would escalate until the flames settled to their usual waltz once again. Sorenson surmised that he'd sat through several symphonies of fire dances. Still, there was an elephant in the room.

Sorenson's line of work frequently raised questions of ethics. As an undergraduate, his fixation with philosophy led him to a secondary degree with a focus on metaphysics. Generally, this served him well; he frequently served as moderator during impromptu debates at faculty dinners…until alcohol overpowered reason. He loved the art of logic. And a good drink.

Usually, he could look back and feel secure in his decisions, as one who had been truly liberated from Plato's cave would. He'd built a solid moral foundation despite the difficulty and questionable nature of many of the studies in his field. _In order to better understand the human experience and to ultimately improve it_, he reasoned, _humans must be our subjects; we must use some humans in order to achieve goodness for all humans_. Sorenson's view was strictly utilitarian when it came to his work.

Never before had his utilitarian view come so fiercely into question, though. Never before had the repercussions hit so close to home. Moreover, Sorenson found it grossly sardonic that he, of all people, was so intimately connected with Dr. Thomas and her sister.

He raises his glass. _Tonight I drink to irony. _Dr. Thomas was the daughter he never had. Her sister was the brainchild whose existence was supposed to be seamless and whose potential demise was supposed to be meaningless.

Dr. Sorenson created Outcome X.

He'd listened with concern embedded in his eyes the previous afternoon as Dr. Thomas spilled what she knew of the situation.

"You saw it on the news, Gregor, didn't you? You heard about the shooting at the Sterisyn-Morlanta lab? Marta was there. She was the only survivor. And now she's gone. No one knows what happened to her. Someone set her house on fire. But she wasn't there, Gregor. Where could she be?"

Dr. Thomas's question was directed to the ground, as she dropped her head in confusion and despair. Sorenson was thankful that it was rhetorical. For all she knew, he was ignorant; he was nothing more than her shoulder to lean on.

Little did she know; he knew everything.

_My God. Eliza's sister is Marta Shearing. How is this possible?_ The realization smacked him hard, and he felt as though bees were swarming in his head. Sorenson was tense, and he knew it showed. He was never good at hiding agitated nerves. He needed to get away.

"Eliza, I have to go. I'm sorry." He took her hand and squeezed it, acknowledging her through glassy eyes. He saw the confusion in her brown eyes and the questioning tilt of her head. He wanted so badly to comfort her, to let her know that Marta was still alive or…something. _I can't._ "I'm sorry, Eliza," he repeated. Then, he was gone.

The next day, he didn't go to work. He needed time away from people. He only made his way to his office in the evening, certain that no one would disturb him. He was hopeful that his cozy office and his Scotch would help to put his mind at ease.

He contemplates Byer's call. _"We have to engage Outcome X." _The words sting his ears as he repeats them aloud. This time, the statement is overflowing with even more implications.

NRAG had called upon Sorenson shortly after his wife's death. He still felt lost, bitter, and in need of a project to sooth his angst. It was perfect timing…and the perfect project. The only downside was the high security; he could tell no one. _Grace is gone_, he'd thought. _I have no one to tell. _

Ric Byer needed someone completely separate from Sterisyn-Morlanta for his project: someone separate but equal. He needed a copycat: someone who could mimic Sterisyn-Morlanta's work on Outcome and add his own special touch to a new Agent. His new Agent would be an experiment in Program security: an unsuspecting cog whose capabilities and enhancements could be triggered at will and only at the hands of her creators. She would be a loaded gun, and only they could pull the trigger. They could use her to clean up messes and easily cover their asses if need be. Only her hands would be covered in blood. And if they needed to shut her down too, so be it.

She would know Outcome inside and out. And, yet, she wouldn't have a clue. No one would…except Byer and Sorenson.

The more Sorenson thought about it, the more he felt foolish. He had allowed a seedy government subgroup to convince him of its project's worthiness. He had been so vulnerable at the time. _Maybe that's why they came to me in the first place. They used me so they could use Dr. Shearing so they could use the other Outcome Agents…and…does the chain ever end? _Sorenson massages his forehead. _Am I the end of the chain? What if I don't cooperate? Surely, Byer would shut me down too. _

_If you can hear me, Grace…I need your help. Do I do my job or betray my friend? _Sorenson is not a religious man, but he likes to think that his wife, wherever she is, can hear him. Rather than wait for a sign, he downs his Scotch.

_At least I can keep an eye on Dr. Shearing if I finish the job. Maybe I can keep her alive. Maybe, somehow, I can give her back to Eliza. She's already lost her husband. She doesn't deserve this._

Utility, it seems, is yesterday's paradigm. Sorenson is an old man. All he has to live for is the happiness of those closest to him. Only he can control Outcome X. And only he sees the humanity within her…the necessity of preserving her for a means aside from intelligence.

Sorenson pours more Scotch.

_I have to save Outcome X from herself…at all costs. _

_But…how do I handle Byer?_

He feels a peculiar warmth overtake him, like hands on his shoulders. It's not the fire, for the flames have long since put their vibrant dance on hold. He surmises that his drunkenness is to blame. Or, maybe it's his Grace.

"_Don't worry, my dear," she'd say. "It can wait 'til tomorrow." _

_Now I'm hallucinating. And drunk. But she's right. _Sorenson tucked thoughts about Byer away.

"I'm going to do this right, Grace," he promises aloud. "I can't let the people I care about suffer the loss of another loved one. Not when I have a chance to prevent it. So be it if the truth comes out. So be it if I die along the way."

As Sorenson drifts into a fitful sleep at his stately mahogany desk, he swears he can hear Grace's voice: "_I know, Gregor. I know."_


	12. Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

_Some nights are better than others_, Marta thinks as she lay on her back, her eyes trained on the bamboo ceiling. This is their fourth night in Port Barton. The nightmares have plagued her each night, and they're remarkably vivid. If not for the horrid plot, she might enjoy the clarity of the narrative her subconscious conjures. Each night, though, she wakes wondering if the man sleeping next to her is dead or alive.

Tonight is a good night; she manages to wake quietly at the finale of another nightmare. On bad nights, like on the fishing boat, she wakes in a fit of cries, a sweaty mess. The only good thing about bad nights is Aaron. He's always there, and he's already holding her by the time she wakes. He places soft kisses on her cheeks and her forehead, always saving the chaste kiss on her lips for last. He looks her in the eyes, tells her she's alright, and asks if she wants to talk about it. Her answer is always no.

_How can I possibly explain that I kill him every night in my dreams? _

Instead of opening up, she buries her thoughts down deep in order to spare him of her mental drama. Aaron understands her reluctance, but he feels helpless. The more their relationship grows, the more he feels that he is unable to protect her from herself; this makes him restless. He too buries his thoughts and is satisfied to just hold her until sleep takes her once again.

Tonight, she wakes with a sharp gasp, though it doesn't cut through the stillness with enough force to wake her partner.

_Always the same dream…always a gun in my hand…_

Marta looks to her side. Aaron is there. During their nights together, she's noticed that he is a quiet sleeper; she can see his chest move, but his breath is nearly silent. She reassures herself by placing a careful hand on his cheek. His heat confirms that he is indeed alive and well. She exhales and slowly retracts her hand. She's wide awake. Rather than deciphering the meaning of her dream, she recalls instead the past few days.

_Idyllic. Quiet. Relaxed. Warm._

Together, Marta and Aaron have walked the beach hand-in-hand. They've savored the food and drink. They've talked. The topics of their conversations haven't been all that significant or tactical, but they've learned much about one another during their strolls. Aaron learned that Marta was a successful swimmer in college, and he watched intently as she swam in the ocean, admiring her athlete's form. He learned that she was engaged once, and that, looking back, she was glad it ended sooner rather than later. _I'm glad too_, he thought, surprising himself; he wanted her…more than ever.

Marta learned about Aaron's trek in Alaska and his subsequent discomfort with wolves and cold water. She learned that he loved food and that he'd enjoyed cooking long before Outcome; it had been one of the few things he did well at the state home. Marta still found it difficult to believe that Aaron had once been very different, that he once lacked the capacity to even have such a conversation. _Can't go wrong with a man who can cook_, she mused.

Marta had always believed Aaron to be smooth…in many ways, and men who were smooth were typically connoisseurs of the finer things in life. In Aaron's case, her stereotype was fitting; as it turned out, Aaron loved vehicles too, likening the beauty of his favorite cars to the beauty of a woman. _Why am I not surprised? _This made her smile. She learned that, in his former life, school had been difficult, and that tinkering with old cars had gotten him through until the Army became his only outlet.

Aaron always gave her his full attention. When Marta would lose herself in sharing some distant memory of a childhood family vacation or her last attempt at cooking a gourmet meal for one, she'd turn toward him and find him gazing intently at her, always listening. She wished to be a fly on the wall inside his head. _I wish I knew what was going on in there…_

All kinds of thoughts flew around Aaron's head. He genuinely enjoyed getting to know Marta. She was quirky, a bit awkward even; she was talkative and charming – a breath of fresh air. She was the only person who neither threatened him nor belittled him. For this he was grateful. Sure, circumstances threw them together; it just so happened that she'd been the key to his survival. But, there were moments when he forgot Outcome, forgot enhancements. He reveled in these moments, where there was no further meaning to his life than a walk on the beach with a beautiful, intelligent, and attentive woman. _Despite everything, there's chemistry here, _Aaron thought.

Needless to say, the sexual tension was growing.

They shared a growing comfort in closeness. Comfort was evolving into something more: a need for closeness, a need for contact. Desire was undeniable.

Marta found herself gazing at Aaron's sleeping face through the darkness. _Desire…_

_Where do we start? Where do we go from here? Talk about an unconventional relationship…_

_It's inevitable, though. He had me at "Is that why you make such an attractive appearance?"_

Marta sighs and convinces herself to try and sleep once again. She turns onto her side to face Aaron, finds his hand, and slides her fingers between his. _When the time is right, we'll know._

She is rewarded with several hours of uninterrupted sleep.

The next time she opens her eyes, the room is bright, and Aaron is sitting next to her examining his leg. Marta yawns and props herself up. "Look," he says nodding toward his leg. She follows his gaze and raises her eyebrows. He'd removed her fishing line sutures and was admiring how nicely – and how quickly – the wound had closed. She runs her fingertips over the red zipper-like hillocks of the scar, an action that's clinical, yet more: a touch of admiration. "Wow," she breathes as she raises her eyes to meet his. "Thank you," he says as he reaches for her hand.

Marta isn't sure what to say; after a moment, she echoes him.

"Thank you." She emphasizes the word "you."

"For what?"

"For saving me."

He casts his eyes downward, as if he's embarrassed. "I saved you for selfish reasons."

"You still saved me."

He pauses, thinking.

"We're in this together now," he reassures her quietly. Sure, it even felt cliché as it left his mouth. But it was true; they shared a connection, and neither wanted to go his or her separate way…not yet.

Marta understood how difficult the topic must have been for Aaron. After all, Outcome Agents were engineered to be lone wolves, not team players. Inviting her into his personal space and into his agenda was perhaps more intimate an action than sex.

He squeezes her hand, kisses her knuckles, and smiles sheepishly. "Ready for breakfast, Doc?"

Marta giggles. _Typical Aaron._

Soon, they're walking toward the restaurant, and Aaron's hand is on the small of her back. It had taken quite a bit of self-restraint for Aaron to keep his hands off her otherwise, especially since they'd been sleeping in the same bed and sharing timid kisses since the last night on the fishing boat. There was a certain thrill that came with being out of the grips of the Program, out of their sight. No one could tell him not to touch her; no one could keep him from falling in love.

In his former life at the state home, alone time with the opposite sex had been strictly forbidden; he hadn't been the most experienced teenage boy. In the Army, he'd gotten it when he could, just like the rest of the guys in his company. During his Outcome days, he'd had several short-lived relationships. Of course, conversations were dry; few aspects of his life could be explained in detail over dinner. And, oh yeah, anything beyond casual sex was prohibited.

_Hey, I'm Aaron. I used to be an invalid, but then I got sucked into this gig called Outcome, and now I take drugs that make me a killing machine. But, don't worry; I like long walks on the beach too._

A lopsided smile appears on his face as he and Marta walk_. No wonder dating didn't go over so well, _he thinks.

"What?" Marta is smiling at him awkwardly, having noticed the look on his face.

Something occurs to him then.

_She's the only person who gets me._

"Nothing. I'm just…happy." He smiles at her. Really, he's happy that they've skipped the "dating" part and are comfortable in each other's company. There's nothing to hide.

"Ok," she smirks giving his good shoulder a light squeeze. "Me too."

The day passes slowly. They eat and walk leisurely as usual, and it's getting easier to adjust to the slow-paced lifestyle. Both had been so accustomed to quick movements and decisions that they've had to consciously work to appear relaxed in Port Barton. Nearly a week into their stay, no one had attempted to kill them; it was becoming easier to kick back.

Aaron was still determined to keep up with the outside world. He'd seek out the most secluded ancient computer in the Internet café down the beach and stretch out his limbs while surfing the news sites. He'd gently reminded Marta not to stare so intently at the computer screen when she saw her own face. Aaron was careful to keep his search queries broad; the last thing he needed was for a fishy IP address from the Philippines to show up on one of Byer's monitors. He was sure that Byer would be scouring the digital world for any sign of them as well.

Several major news sites had posted exposes on Dr. Foite and his fictional obsession with Marta. Interestingly, he didn't find much on Marta aside from the circumstances of her disappearance following the shooting. Jason Bourne, on the other hand, was causing a firestorm within the CIA. Aaron had to keep himself from digging deeper.

He turned to Marta to shut off the investigative side of his brain. She was sipping a coffee and flipping through an old issue of _Time _she'd found at the café; if he found something important on the Internet, Marta knew Aaron would tell her about it later. Just to be safe, he always erased the browser history at the end of each session.

As he and Marta got up to leave, he'd make some "American" comment like, "I think we should stay at the Hilton when we get to Kuala Lumpur; their rooms are better." He wanted the other patrons to think they were a happy couple simply planning the next leg of their Asian adventure. And, in reality, that was becoming a pretty accurate description.


	13. Chapter 11

I'm back! More to come soon. Hopefully, this is what you've been waiting for...

**Chapter 11**

In the late afternoon, they find themselves quietly enjoying the sun from separate hammocks in a pavilion near the water. Marta swings gently, absently letting her toes rake the sand. "What was training like?" She asks out of the blue.

He eyes her for a moment, considering the amount of detail he should disclose, not because it's classified, but because it was a grueling time in his life, not a glamorous or James Bond-like experience. Eventually he'll tell her more about witnessing cognitive degrade first-hand, about learning how to switch his emotions on and off, and how to kill with his bare hands, among other weapons.

For now, he'll keep it light. "It was a double-edged sword. For the first time in my life, I could process information and see an end to a means. I was happy to become…who I am."

He pauses.

"I guess you could say that, in theory, my abilities went to good use for my country. But it just wasn't that simple. I had to do things that I'll always regret."

Another pause.

"I'm thankful for my second chance. I was meant to be like this." He points to his head. "Not like Kenneth. But sometimes I wonder if I'll always be part machine, even without the Program telling me what to do."

Marta nods and tilts her head as though she's waiting for him to continue. He decides to switch gears:

"I learned basically everything that SEALs do but with more specialized training in close quarters battle, weaponry, linguistics, survival in remote environments, aircraft training…and a lot of other stuff."

"So you can fly a plane?"

"Commercial airliner, single engine, drone, Black Hawk…you name it." He doesn't mind showing off a little.

Marta's eyes grow wide. Aaron considers telling her about how he trapped and wrestled a wolf once, but he decides to save that story for later. He doesn't want her to forget that he's human too.

"I always liked close quarters battle. It's an art: eye contact, agility…the human body. Man against man."

Eyes still wide, Marta's expression shifts a bit. Aaron can tell that she's intrigued by his last statement, turned-on even. "You're pretty good at it, from what I've seen." There's a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

That lopsided smile returns to his face. "I better be after all the beating I took in training."

"I always wanted to learn how to defend myself."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah, for years."

He cuts her off by rising to his feet and offering his hand. "Come on."

She eyes him suspiciously.

"I'll teach you. Come on."

He pulls her into the sand then stops to face her.

"Fighting position. Chin down. Eyes up. Hands up." He demonstrates, and her eyes drift toward his flexed biceps. He takes her hands and gently lifts them, as if she's a life-size Barbie doll turned boxer. He folds her fingers into fists and steps back to mirror her. "Step back with your left foot. Good." He smiles at her, his student.

"You strike with your whole body, not just your fist. You're not going to fight like a girl." He shows her a jab and a cross making sure to emphasize the full-body motion. "Try it," he says.

Marta's eyes narrow as she takes her first practice swings. Aaron enjoys the flexion of her muscles under her milky skin.

"Good." He explains how anything is fair game in a confrontation. He shows her how to use her elbow to the body or to the head, her heel to the toes or shin of an attacker. In the direct sunlight, they begin to sweat. The lesson becomes more intense, and Aaron is impressed by her athleticism. _I wouldn't have guessed that she could move like that. Damn._

"What do you do if someone attacks from behind?" He's given her some pointers, but he wants her to be able to react quickly. He steps behind her, placing his front foot between her feet and securing one arm over her shoulder and neck. "What do you do?" She hesitates, but not for long. He's gripping her firmly, but not in a threatening way. She raises her elbow to his temple and her heel to his shin. Of course, she does so gently not wanting to hurt her "attacker."

Freeing herself from him, she turns to face him and returns to her fighting position. "That's it," he says. She smiles through heavy breaths.

"Hit me," he instructs. "Come on."

"I don't want to hurt you," she argues.

"You won't. Come on."

They're both speaking through heavy breaths now.

"Are you saying I'm not capable of hurting you?" Marta has a competitive side.

Aaron uses her challenge to his advantage. "Yeah, that's right," he returns with a mock menacing smile.

"Oh, you're going to regret that," she replies ready to come at him.

"Come on," he taunts.

Marta lunges at him then, sending a right hook toward him with impressive force. Aaron ducks, catches her hand in his, and pulls her against him. In what seems like nanoseconds, they hit the sand in a fit of breaths. Aaron has her pinned beneath him. With her body still stiff against him, she resigns herself to defeat.

"That's not fair," she whines.

"You almost had me," he says. "You hit pretty hard for…"

"You better not say it," she warns in a husky whisper.

"…For a girl." Marta playfully swats his arm and goes limp with a dramatic defeated sigh. Aaron has never felt so alive. Without a thought, he leans down and nips at her ear. When he catches her eyes again, he notes that her breathing has slowed and her expression has changed. They've been here before: the same expression, the same position. _That night on the fishing boat… _

Marta initiates the kiss this time, tentatively raising her head to press her lips to his. He cradles her head and gently eases her back to the sand. This time, he is confident in deepening the kiss, and she engages willingly, desperately.

Marta's hands are in his hair, and she can't recall a time when she didn't want this; Aaron has been a constant in her life since she left Maryland, but it feels like a lifetime has passed since then, since Manila even. In this microcosm lifetime, he has become her everything.

The kiss continues until several local kids run past them toward the water, stirring up enough sand in their wake to break the contact. Their eyes follow the children until their feet hit wet sand. Then, their attention returns to one another. Aaron gives her a gentle smile and sits up, pulling her with him. They sit quietly for a while: her head on his shoulder, and his arm wrapped snuggly around her.

When dusk falls, they eat with Malaya's extended family. They are accompanied by the soft rhythm of waves and nighttime insect songs. Nature reminds them just how alive they are. It feels like another century comes and goes before they're back at the cottage.

Predictably, they reach for one another as soon as Aaron shuts the door. The kiss continues where it left off, and Marta's hands are back in his hair, as Aaron's explore the curve of her lower back. She shivers, and Aaron stores a memory of the sensation in the back of his mind. Marta's hands drift through his hair, to his neck, and slowly down his chest; it's his turn to shiver. They break the kiss only long enough to catch each other's eyes. Marta grips the hem of his t-shirt and begins dragging it upward slowly. Painfully slow.

He feels the need to say something, but his voice – or maybe it's his vocabulary – fails him.

"Marta, I…"

She shushes him gently. "Let go, Aaron," she whispers, cupping his cheek.

He swallows nervously and nods. "You're perfect," he breathes. It's the first thing that comes to mind.

"So are you." With that, she pulls her own shirt over her head granting him permission to explore. He needs no further invitation to lose himself in her perfection.

The rest of their clothes are eventually tossed aside as well, and for once, Aaron is pleased to be wearing flip-flops. _At least they're easy to take off_, he muses while recalling his initial hatred for such useless footwear. He's found ecstasy in the removal of all physical barriers that once separated him from Marta. Finally, it's skin against skin, man against woman, and he likens it to his description of close quarters battle: an art. Making love is an art.

At some point, they find the bed, as hands and mouths continue to explore. To Marta, it's as though they're moving fast and slow at the same time. Desperation keeps them constantly reaching new heights, and the desire to savor each instant keeps them holding back just enough to prolong the thrill.

She loves the way he touches her with such confidence, yet with a kind of innocence that is his own. There is an intensity in his touch that could never be matched by the lovers of her past. Not even close. She's dying for him to take her, and she's unabashed to beg.

"Please, Aaron…"

He knows what she needs, and he needs it too, but he has to hear it so that her need consumes all of his senses.

"I need you…"

He kisses her softly, his brow furrowed in a new kind of pleasure, as he acquiesces. His eyes are on hers unfailingly, making sure she feels no pain. Finally, they are one.

Aaron cradles Marta's head as he'd done that afternoon in the sand, and the mutual need for closeness presses them together. Aaron isn't afraid he will hurt her; she pulls him ever closer, deeper with each movement. They move slowly as they become accustomed to one another, reading each other's eyes between kisses.

Marta adores the way he trembles slightly against her. His vulnerability leads her to wrap herself around him, and for a moment he lets his head fall to her neck, so taken by pleasure that he's unable to support its weight. He shivers as her hands run through his hair and pull lightly.

"God, Marta…" His breath is hot on her neck before he devotes his mouth to that sensitive spot where neck meets shoulder.

"So good, Aaron, so good…" Aaron reduces Marta's vocabulary to only adjectives and his name; this alone gets him so close to his height. If his enhanced ears could feel pleasure, he's sure they'd have reached nirvana by now.

Lost in new sensations, Aaron suddenly realizes why this has been forbidden: he's completely unaware of everything except Marta, and thus, they are dangerously vulnerable.

_There's no turning back._

And yet, he realizes that he doesn't want to go back to a time before they shared this. All he wants – all he needs – is to be with her in every possible way…even if together, they are in danger.

Tentative fingertips brush his cheek. "Let go, Baby…" she soothes in a half-whisper, half-moan.

_Sometimes I wonder if she can read my mind…_

Taking in the image of her fluttering eyelids, flushed face, and sweet sheen of sweat, he can't help but give himself over completely. He kisses her fiercely, coaxes her leg tighter around his waist, and lets go of every fear that's ever plagued him.

Aaron can't fathom a word worthy of describing their peak. They already read each other so well that it's possible to attain their height together, and they ride it out to the chorus of each other's name and "God" cried aloud over and over…until all that's left to do is breathe.

Still one, they continue to kiss and shift slightly to relax. In her previous relationship, Marta had enjoyed the sex, but this – holding one another – had never been a priority. Tonight, though, she notes her intense desire for Aaron to remain in her arms and as close to her as physics will allow. She is relieved when he collapses against her with no intention of breaking their contact.

He lays his head on her chest, and she loves the way they fit together in this position. She holds him there, his head cradled under her chin, and he tightens his embrace when her fingertips drift over his cheek and into his sweaty hair. His eyelids are heavy with sated exhaustion. He brings his hand up to rest against her chest, and she strokes it adoringly.

The remainder of the evening is spent in subsequent passionate encounters interspersed with episodes of deep, satisfied sleep. Every time they wake to the changing tide, desire returns in full force.

Finally, perfectly entwined, they settle into the sheets to sleep covered in sweat and unable to lift a limb. As Aaron drifts into unconsciousness in the early morning hours, a fleeting thought passes through his mind:

_So, this is what love feels like… _

Indeed, the same thought crossed Marta's mind that night. Nevertheless, it was a thought that would remain chained to their minds for the time being.

Too soon to verbalize such a loaded sentiment, Aaron whispers the next best thing as Marta sleeps in his arms: "I'll keep you safe, Marta. I promise."


	14. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

Marta reflects on a hazy morning in Hong Kong. She's wide-awake by the time dawn breaks.

_The past few weeks have been so bittersweet_.

Bitter because of what, or rather, whom she left behind: Eliza and Ethan. Bitter because she can't pick up the hotel phone, dial her sister's number, and say, "I'm alive, I'm alive, I'm alive!" Her job? Her Ph.D.? Her house? Her reputation? Those, she's come to find, are easier left behind.

Sweet for several reasons: the thrill of taking nothing for granted, the pungent sights, smells, and tastes of Asia…

Most of all, the sweetness resulted from the realization that she was never alone. He was always there, always perfect.

_Aaron…_

This morning, as on most mornings, Marta's subconscious roused her from sleep in the most unpleasant way.

_Always a gun in my hand…_

And, always, her instinct is to turn into Aaron's arms. He's always there. This morning is no different; she touches her forehead to his, strokes his neck and shoulder, and reassures herself that he is alive.

Her mind wanders back to a similar morning two weeks earlier – their last in Port Barton. Having been in one place for too long, Aaron grew antsy – he worried that it had been far too quiet for far too long; they were long overdue for unwelcome company.

Nevertheless, they had savored the last secluded and tender moments in their cottage. After making love that morning, they lounged in bed. Marta remembered the heat in her cheeks when Aaron said matter-of-factly, "I want to enjoy you naked while I can," referring to the unfortunate need for clothing on the ensuing cruise ship sojourn.

"Take your time," she'd said happily as he left a trail of light kisses from torso to hip: a ritual that had become typical, and yet, Marta was amazed by the novel sensations every time.

When his lips found a particular scar on the lower right side of her abdomen, he kissed the hillock fervently, as if willing it to disappear. "What's this from?" He asked solemnly, lips still on her skin. He'd had the most concerned look on his face.

"I had to have my appendix taken out a couple years ago," she reassured; unlike his scars, hers were not the result of enemies' hostility. She felt him relax a bit as she cupped his cheek.

"I have one just like it," he said. He turned onto his back. "See?" It was her turn to press her lips to his skin: soft kisses from scar to thigh. Then, "What from, Baby?"

"I like when you call me that," he murmured with mischief in his eyes. She slid up his chest and kissed his nose playfully. Still, she waited for him to answer her question.

Aaron sighed and continued: "Program tracking device; they put a chip in me. Big Brother was always watching. Then they used it to try and blow me to shreds."

Marta's brows furrowed. _What a buzz kill_, she thought.

"I had to cut it out in Alaska. They sent a drone to shut me down using the chip's signal, so I cut out the chip." Aaron gestured with his hand, as if reenacting the way he'd cut into his own flesh with a dull scalpel. Then he continued: "I trapped a wolf and put the chip down its throat. The drone caught the signal and knocked out the wolf, not me. That's why they thought I was gone." _You know, a normal day in the life of an Outcome Agent…_

Marta took a moment to absorb his story. Then: "Aaron?"

"Hmm?" His lips were busy savoring her neck.

"How did you get the chip down the wolf's throat?"

He paused to consider her question. "You don't want to know." The side of his mouth quirked up, and she swatted his shoulder playfully.

His lips returned to her neck, and his thoughts returned to her scar. "You were sick?" He asked.

"Yeah. I never got sick. And then, all of the sudden, my appendix bursts, and I'm headed in for emergency surgery. The next day, I felt fine. It was as if nothing was wrong with me in the first place. It was bizarre."

Aaron had propped himself up on his elbow next to her; he'd listened so intently.

Marta shook her head as thoughts about the absurdity of her surgery flooded into her mind.

"My doctor was this enigmatic fellow – Dr. Sorenson…something or other…" She tried to remember, but the experience was strangely foggy. "Anyway, sometimes I dream about him, and I swear he talks about Outcome in my dreams."

"What about Outcome?" Aaron was visibly concerned.

"I don't really know…something about Outcome X, whatever that is." She paused. "The subconscious mind is a quirky thing. I'd ask my sister about it if I could…she'd have an idea of how to interpret my wacky dreams. That kind of thing's right up her alley." Marta was rambling, trying to skirt around the true substance of her dreams: the violent part that she couldn't bear to reveal.

"Outcome X," Aaron repeated quietly, brows furrowed. "As in…Outcome Five or Six or…whatever?"

"I guess. I mean…I don't know. As far as I was told, all Outcome Agents were given a number, not a letter."

Aaron nodded.

"Who knows? Maybe I'm just crazy. And stressed out." Marta recalls wanting so badly to move off the topic and onto Aaron's body. She had become tense, and she could read his expression all too well; the gears in his head were turning with all the talk about Outcome.

Nevertheless, Aaron sensed her need. "Let me help you with that," he cooed, referring to her stress level. The "come 'ere" look on her face made it much easier to switch off "worry mode" and devote himself to pleasing her.

It was their last morning in Port Barton, and Marta didn't want there to be tension between them…unless it was the physical kind that preceded sweet release. She needed all of him again…and again…

From their small bed in Hong Kong, Marta savors the memory of Port Barton as she waits for Aaron to wake. She wonders if the odd circumstances of her appendectomy have crossed his mind since they left their cottage, caught a Jeepney to Puerto Princesa, and hopped aboard the cargo deck of a Hong Kong-bound cruise ship.

Indeed, the conversation has resurfaced in Aaron's mind on more than one occasion. He worries about Marta, especially considering how she wakes in a state of piercing terror on most nights, even if he's holding her as protectively and as tenderly as he can. It kills him, and naturally, the implications of the scar on her abdomen plague his mind as well.

When the phrase "Outcome X" enters his mind, it's difficult not to wonder, not to worry.

_What if they're tracking her? _

He forces himself to bury such an outrageous thought.

_It was just an appendectomy. That's it. She has dreams because of what we've been through. It's normal._

Aaron is only able to completely purge his mind of these thoughts when he and Marta make love. The only thing he worries about when they're one is how to verbalize his intense feelings, yet he's still too much of a coward to say the forbidden word.

_Love._

Nearly two weeks into their stay in Hong Kong, Aaron asks a question that Marta is not ready to answer: "Why don't you want to tell me about your dreams?" He asks gently, leaning close to her, as they walk hand-in-hand through a crowded market. Marta's mood changes immediately, and she pulls her hand away from his like a spooked animal. It's a defensive reaction Aaron certainly isn't expecting.

Marta immediately regrets pulling away from him so quickly; Aaron is visibly confused, and he can't mask the hurt in his eyes. Aaron and Marta are facing each other, stopped in a busy crossway. Chinese businessmen with briefcases, elderly ladies with shopping bags, and vendors with overflowing carts scurry past as if they don't exist. Marta tears her eyes away from Aaron's, takes in the panorama of color and life that surrounds them, and lets her head fall forward. Gravity claims its victory, as tears burn in her eyes.

Then, Aaron speaks. "Christ, Marta, why won't you let me in?"

She's never heard so much emotion in his voice.

"It kills me that I can protect you from everything…from God-damned assassins!" He exclaims incredulously. "But, I can't…" He pauses then, trying to string words together. Resigned and a bit shaky, he finishes:

"I can protect you from everything…except your dreams."

Marta finally meets his eyes. "I don't want to hurt you," she whispers. Somehow, he still hears her above the noise that surrounds them.

Aaron has gathered that he is a part of her dreams; this much he knows. "Talking about it can't hurt anyone, Marta. They're just dreams."

Marta nods, but she is still wary. She's had vivid dreams before, but these? They're a whole new kind of beast. She can't help but feel that they're a vision of what's to come.

_Don't be so ridiculous. _She's tried to convince herself over and over that not even her subconscious can conjure up the future.

"Remember what I told you?" Aaron asks quietly, stirring her back to reality with a warm palm on her damp cheek. Marta nods and embraces him.

"I won't let anyone hurt you," he breathes.

_It's not me I'm worried about, _Marta thought; _It's you. I can't lose you._

As they resumed their walk toward the hotel, Marta decided it was time to open up.


End file.
